111 


SIANA 


ILKlNSON 


€fr*°~~ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


JUatttatum 


of  GDlft  3L0m0iana 


HE  JOMP  OUT  DE  BED  AN'  JOMP  OUT  DE  DO'  TO  GRAB 

MR.  WOODPECK'  '  "       (See  page  242) 


_  of 

Untrimana 


Wilkittaon 

JUiielrale&  and  ittiarattii 

faa 
(Charba  ICtutngatnit  Hull 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
THE  PAGE  COMPANY 

Entered  at 
Stationers'  Hall,  London 

Att  rights  reserved 
First  Impression,  June,  1914 


THE   COLONIAL   PRESS 
C.   H.   SIMONDS   CO.,    BOSTON,   U.  S.  A. 


DEDICATED   TO 

JILL  AMERICAN  BOYS  AND  GIRLS 

WHO  LOVE  THE  WOODS  AND  WILDS  AND  ARE  IN- 
TERESTED IN  BIRDS  AND  ANIMALS,  WHO  MIGHT 
ENJOY  LISTENING  TO  NEGRO  TALES  AND  HUNTERS' 
STORIES  ABOUT  THEM,  OR  MIGHT  LIKE  TO  CATCH 
A  GLIMPSE  OF  PLANTATION  LIFE  IN  THE  FAR 
SOUTH. 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 


Contents 

PACB 

INTRODUCING  THE  BIRDLAND  TWINS        ...  1 

THE  MINSTREL  OP  BIRDLAND 9 

How  MR.  Fox  FOOLED  MADAM  POSSUM        .       .  22 

How  DOCTOR  PIG  CURED  MR.  WOLF'S  TOOTHACHE  37 

THE  CROWNING  OF  THE  KINGBIRD   .       .       .       .  51 

THE  TIME  THE  MOON  FELL 66 

How  MR.  LYNX  GOT  His  SPOTTED  COAT      .       .  82 

MR.  JAY  BROUGHT  TO  JUDGMENT     ....  101 
How  MR.  Fox  FOOLED  HIMSELF     .       .       .       .118 

How  MR.  LYNX  GOT  His  STRIPED  FACE       .       .  134 

WHO  BELLED  MR.  BUZZARD? 150 

How  MR.  LYNX  LOST  His  LONG  TAIL  .       .       .166 

How  MR.  MINK  BECAME  A  HUNTSMAN  ...  184 

MY  LADY'S  MOTTLED  BELT       .       .       .       .     ,.  200 
vfi 


Vlll 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV.  THE  RESURRECTION  OF  COCK  -  ROBIN  AND  JENNY  - 

WREN 217 

XVI.  How  MR.  WOODPECKER  GOT  His  RED  HEAD      .     234 

XVII.  BROTHERS  HARDSHELL  AND  LONGJAW      .       .       .     245 

XVIII.  MR.  LYNX  HUNTS  MORE  TROUBLE  ....     270 

XIX.  How  MR.  WOLF  LOST  His  SPRING  LAMB  .       .       .284 

XX.  THE  FINDING  OF  THE  WHITE  DOVE        .       .       .298 

XXI.  THE  LOST  HUNTERS  OF  THE  WHITE  DOE      .       .     306 

XXII.  THE  WINNING  OF  MIST  -  IN  -  THE  -  WOODS     ,        ,     322 


Hist  of  JFttU=|ia0r 


"  '  HE  JOMP  OUT  DE  BED  AN'  JOMP  OUT  DE  DO'  TO  GRAB  MR. 

WOODPECK'  '  "  (See  page  242)    ....      Frontispiece 

OLD  JASON      ...........        6 

"  A  SPITEFUL  JAY  .  .  .  SWOOPED  DOWN  AFTER  THE  FLEEING 

BEAST"     ...........       19 

"  '  MR.  FOX'S  MOUF  COMMENCED  TO  PUCKER  '  "  .  .  .  35 

"  '  HE  TUKS  HIS  TAIL  BETWIXT  HIS  LONG  BEHINE  -  LEGS   AN' 

PUTS  OUT  F'OM  DAR  DE  BESTEs'  HE  COULD  '  "  50 

"  *  THE  FLYCATCHER  .  .  .  STRUCK  AND  STABBED  THE  ROYAL 

HEAD  AGAIN  AND  AGAIN  '  '  ......      63 

"  '  HE  DBS'   TUMBLES   TWO   BACK   SUMMERSETS,   SQUEALS  AN' 

"  SKEWREES  "  HIS  LOUDES'  '  "     ......       76 

"  '  WHAT  DAT  COMIN*  THEW  DE  THICKET?  '  "  .       .       .       .      93 

"  '  RAN  UP  AND  SQUATTED  ON  A  LIMB  JUST  BELOW  JUDGE 

BARN  OWL'S  PERCH  '  "  ........     HO 

"  '  OH,  MR.  POLECAT,  WON'T  YOU  PLEASE  LEMME  HIDE  IN 

YO'   HOUSE?  '"  .........       130 

"  '  BUT  MR.  COON  HE  JOMP  IN  DE  BAYOU  '  "  .       .       •       •  148 
"  HE  PASSED  A  FLOCK  OF  WILD  GEESE  WINGING  THEIR  SOUTH- 

WARD FLIGHT  "       .........  162 

"  '  SOON  HE  FELT  A  'SPICIOUS  NIBBLE  '  "    .....  181 

"  '  JEDGE  B'AR  LARFED  AG'IN  '"       ......  195 

ix 


List  of  Full-page  Plates 


"  '  DECIDED   THAT  IT  WAS   ONLY  A  LOW  MOUND  OF  DEAD 

LEAVES '" 212 

"  '  LOOK  HEAH,  MR.  BLACKBIRD,  YOU  DBS'  AS  WELL  GO  'LONG 

AN*  MIND  YO'  OWN  BUSINESS  '  " 230 

"  '  WHERE  YOU  BEEN,  MR.  COON,  TO  COME  HOME  DIS  TAM  o' 

NIGHT?'" 240 

"  *  RIDICULING  HIS  STRONG  AND  FIERCE  VISITOR'S  FOOLISH 

TERROR'"  .  .  . 258 

"  *  A  BUCKETFUL  O'  MAD  BEES  WAS  SPRINKLED  ALL  OVER 

HIM'" 281 

"  '  RUNS  HIS  BESTES'  BACK  TO  DE  WOODS  WID  IT  '  "    .       .     294 

"  AGAIN  SETTLED  IN  THE  FIELD  NEAR  THE  ROADSIDE  "        .     301 

"  CARRIED  HIM  OFF  TO  SOME  HIDDEN  DOMAIN  OF  THE  TEM- 
PEST"   316 

"  TORE  THE  STINGING  ARROW  FROM  ITS  BREAST  "  .  ,     336 


plantation  Stories  of 
Coui0iana 


Kntrottttrfng  t!)t 


THE  brother  and  sister  who  figure,  mostly 
as  listeners,  in  the  following  stories  were 
twins  near  their  teens,  who  lived  on  an  old 
sugar  plantation  in  Louisiana  within  fifty  miles  of 

New  Orleans.    As  they  object  to  having  their  real 

i 


2         Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

names  in  print,  and  are  still  more  opposed  to  ap- 
pearing under  false  ones,  they  are  always  men- 
tioned as  the  Birdland  Boy,  or  the  Birdland  Girl, 
where  they  are  brought  into  these  tales  of  Louisi- 
ana plantation  life. 

The  family  residence  of  Birdland  plantation 
was  a  roomy  and  very  old  Colonial  house  that  over- 
looked the  Mississippi  river  from  the  midst  of  park- 
like  grounds.  This  mansion  was  built  of  brick  cov- 
ered with  brown  stucco ;  at  its  front  and  back  were 
long  and  wide  verandas,  or  galleries,  as  they  are 
there  called,  shaded  by  a  shingle  roof,  which  lapped 
well  over  the  tops  of  the  tall  rows  of  wooden  col- 
umns supporting  it. 

The  mansion-grounds,  which  lay  behind  the  pub- 
lic road  and  levee  near  the  bank  of  the  river,  were 
enclosed  on  all  sides  by  thick  and  thorny  hedges  of 
the  wild  Cherokee  rose.  They  were  partly  covered 
with  groves  of  great  live-oaks,  scattered  about  as 
they  grew  in  the  original  forest,  immense  mag- 
nolias, planted  by  hands  long  ago  turned  into  dust, 
and  tall  pecans,  towering  above  the  more  spread- 
ing evergreen  trees.  Here  and  there  cone-shaped 


Introducing  the  Birdland  Twins  3 

cedars  pointed  their  pinnacles  toward  open  patches 
of  sky  showing  between  the  larger  trees,  and  nu- 
merous crape-myrtles  skirted  all  four  inner  sides 
of  the  Cherokee  rose  hedge. 

In  the  abundant  shrubbery  of  the  place  were 
glistening  camellias  and  sweet  olives,  bushes  and 
trellised  vines  of  roses,  arbors  of  honeysuckle,  cape 
jasmines,  and  overgrown  hedges  of  box  bordering 
and  hiding  winding  walks.  Level  spaces  of  green 
lawn  lay  wherever  the  full  sunlight  could  reach  the 
ground. 

The  family  residence  and  the  numerous  out- 
houses behind  it  appeared  faded  and  weather- 
stained,  but  without  the  least  loss  of  respectability 
from  their  lack  of  freshness.  From  its  ample  size 
and  its  venerable  looks  the  old  coach-house  showed, 
most  of  all,  that  it  had  belonged  to  a  more  pros- 
perous, or  pretentious  era.  In  its  dusty  gloom, 
behind  lighter  and  cheaper  modern  vehicles,  dozed 
an  ancient  family  chariot  with  its  plating  dimmed 
and  its  rotting  silken  curtains  fringed  by  ragged 
spider-webs.  That  ancient  coach  seemed  to  be  sor- 
rowfully musing  over  the  good  old  times  that  were 


4         Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

gone.  Its  heavy  wheels  had  not  turned  for  a  gen- 
eration; but,  during  those  long,  long  years  of  its 
dreamy  rest,  its  rusting  springs  had  often  been 
made  to  rock  and  creak  by  the  merry  joggling  of 
fanciful  children  in  imaginary  rounds  of  fashion- 
able visits. 

Anything  very  modern  about  that  old  home 
would  have  appeared  out  of  keeping  writh  the 
place.  Even  the  two  latest  children  of  the  house 
had  an  old-timey  manner,  and  an  old-fashioned 
courtesy,  as  if  it  might  have  come  to  them  as  a 
legacy  from  the  long-forgotten  past. 

Several  hundred  yards  distant  from  the  resi- 
dence, in  the  midst  of  the  cane-fields,  stood  a  large 
sugar  factory,  which  was  flanked  by  workshops  for 
metal  and  wood;  and,  further  away,  was  quite  a 
populous  village  of  houses  forming  the  "  Negro 
Quarters."  In  three  rows  those  homes  bordered 
two  wide,  live-oak-shaded  avenues,  where  numbers 
of  little  negro  children  ran  noisily  about,  playing 
from  morn  until  night,  while  their  watching 
mothers  worked  on  their  sewing  and  washing,  or 
nodded,  or  gossiped  between  meals. 


Introducing  the  Birdland  Twins  5 

Behind  the  negro  village,  in  their  separate  en- 
closures, were  the  big  corn-barn,  with  its  high- 
peaked  hayloft  and  belfry  above  it,  the  long  mule 
stable,  and  low  cowsheds,  within  convenient  reach 
of  that  extensive  storehouse  for  the  live-stock. 

The  Birdland  Boy  attended  a  private  school  near 
home,  while  his  sister  was  taught  at  home  by  a 
young  Creole  governess,  who  was  called  Made- 
moiselle by  everybody  in  the  house  except  the 
negro  servants,  who  shortened  that  title  to  "  Mam- 
zel." 

The  Birdland  Twins  were  truly  happy  young 
people,  although  they  were  deprived  of  pleasures 
and  amusements  which  could  be  found  only  in  city 
life.  But  the  loss  of  such  diversions  made  them 
more  fond  of  reading  and  listening  to  stories  than 
most  boys  and  girls  of  their  age;  and,  taking  a 
keen  interest  in  the  world  about  them,  they  found 
country-life  extremely  enjoyable.  Now  and  then 
their  parents  took  them  to  New  Orleans ;  and  they 
never  missed  going  there  for  the  Carnival  week  to 
see  the  glittering  night-processions  and  the  gor- 
geous day  and  night  parades  of  Mardi  Gras.  At 


6         Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

home  they  had  their  ponies  to  ride  and  a  pony-cart 
to  drive,  and  numerous  young  friends  of  the  neigh- 
borhood to  visit  or  entertain. 

Among  their  grown-up  visitors  was  one  friend 
valued  by  the  Birdland  Boy  above  all  others.  This 
was  a  young  Doctor,  who  lived  two  miles  distant 
down  the  river  road.  That  young  physician  was 
very  fond  of  hunting,  and  he  fascinated  the  boy 
with  his  true  stories  and  fictitious  tales  about  the 
birds  and  the  beasts  of  the  forest,  and  the  reptiles 
of  the  marshes  and  the  bayous  he  had  found  in  his 
jaunts  and  journeys  through  the  woods  and  wilds. 

The  most  devoted  friend  of  b@th  the  brother  and 
sister  was  a  grey-headed  negro,  named  Jason,  who 
worked  about  the  mansion  grounds  and  lived  in  the 
Quarters.  Old  Jason,  who  had  been  brought  from 
Virginia  in  his  youth,  and  had  grown  to  full  man- 
hood in  their  grandfather's  time,  had  been  a 
favorite  hunting  companion  of  their  father,  and  a 
keeper  of  the  hounds  and  deer-driver  for  the 
young  gentlemen  of  his  generation.  Now,  long 
after  the  ending  of  the  old-time  popular  sports  of 
the  local  gentry,  he  was  as  fond  of  the  woods  as 


OLD    JASOX. 


Introducing  the  Birdland  Twins  7 

ever,  and  most  of  his  spare  time  was  spent  in  trap- 
ping and  coon-hunting.  But,  as  much  as  he  loved 
the  woods,  the  old  man  loved  the  family  of  Bird- 
land  better,  and  in  his  declining  years  he  still  dwelt 
with  and  served  it,  although  he  well  knew  that 
there  he  would  be  fed,  clothed  and  cared  for  during 
the  rest  of  his  days  whether  he  worked  or  remained 
idle. 

The  only  daughter  of  the  house  dearly  loved 
Mademoiselle,  the  pretty  governess,  who  was  her 
friend  and  companion  as  well  as  her  teacher,  and 
who  fully  deserved  all  of  her  charge's  affection. 
Next  in  her  heart  the  Birdland  Girl  held  the  young 
Doctor,  who  was  very  fond  of  her,  and,  perhaps, 
of  her  charming  teacher  also ;  but  that  latter  prob- 
able affection  has  very  little  to  do  with  these  sub- 
sequent tales. 

The  Birdland  Twins  were  much  attached  to 
their  old  "  Black  Mammy,"  their  faithful  nurse 
and  devoted  attendant  since  the  days  of  their  earli- 
est infancy,  whom  they  regarded  as  a  member  of 
the  family.  Like  Jason,  the  ancient  grey  woods- 
man, that  venerable  negro  woman  had  lived  with 


8         Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

three  generations  of  the  Birdland  family,  and, 
once  having  been  owned  as  a  slave,  she  had  owned, 
ruled,  served  and  loved  the  children  of  two  of  those 
generations,  as  she  did  these  last  twin  scions  of  the 
family. 


II 
JHinsttel  of 


PLEASANT  as  was  the  Birdland  home  for 
its  young  people,  it  was  a  perfect  paradise 
for  bird-kind.     No  shooting  for  market  or 
bird-trapping   was   permitted   on   the   plantation. 
Hundreds  of  the  numerous  species  of  song-birds 
that  love  to  live  near  human  homes  dwelt  there 

through  the  spring  and  summer.     Even  a  few  of 
9 


10       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

the  timid  families  of  thrushes  that  are  rarely  seen 
outside  the  tangled  thickets  of  the  wildwoods,  de- 
serted their  natural  homes  in  the  wilderness  to 
dwell  in  the  dense  shrubbery  of  the  spacious 
grounds  surrounding  the  mansion.  Hence  the 
groves,  bushes  and  wild  Cherokee  hedges  re- 
sounded with  a  melodious  cantata  from  morning 
until  night.  While  many  of  these  feathered  song- 
sters remained  through  the  year,  most  of  them 
departed  in  the  autumn.  Then  their  places  were 
soon  filled  by  flocks  of  more  silent  visitors,  who  had 
finished  their  summer  singing  with  their  nesting 
in  the  far  North,  such  as  song-sparrows,  bluebirds, 
robins,  and  migrating  birds  of  several  other  fam- 
ilies. 

There  the  happy  home-birds,  and  the  equally 
happy  Birdland  Twins,  lived,  together  as  it  were, 
the  whole  year  around,  and  while  the  brother  and 
sister  played  and  learned  and  grew  larger,  the 
birds  played  and  sang,  and  also  studied  and 
worked  in  their  wonderful  bird  way.  As  the  Twins 
were  out  of  doors  among  the  birds  so  much  they 
came  to  understand  much  of  their  bird-talk  in 


The  Minstrel  of  Birdland  11 

time,  and  the  birds  seemed  to  learn  the  meaning 
of  their  human  words  and  gestures. 

The  favorite  of  the  Twins  and  their  father  and 
mother  was  a  fearless  old  male  mocking-bird,  that, 
of  all  his  kind,  lived  nearest  the  house  summer  and  * 
winter,  as  a  feathered  lord  of  his  limited  domain. 
He  had  grown  up  when  the  Twins  were  toddling 
babies,  and,  in  a  few  years,  he  had  learned  to  sing 
so  very  finely,  the  children's  mother  had  given  him 
the  well-won  name,  the  Minstrel  of  Birdland. 

In  the  middle  of  February  that  feathered  min- 
strel, after  having  remained  mute  for  three  months, 
commenced  his  music  again  near  St.  Valentine's 
Day.  His  grey  garb,  which  had  grown  dusty  and 
ruffled  in  the  midwinter,  became  cleaner,  smoother 
and  more  glossy,  and  its  neglected  trimmings 
showed  again  their  dainty  white.  He  moved  with  a 
lighter  grace  on  wing  and  feet,  and  laid  aside,  also, 
his  moody  manners  of  the  midwinter,  and  merrily 
danced  over  the  lawn,  or  flitted  joyfully  about 
through  the  trees  and  the  lower  shrubbery,  while 
he  vaulted  and  soared  in  circling  flights  in  the  air. 

In  the  bright  sunny  mornings,  which  were  balmy 


12       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

with  the  breath  of  spring  in  that  land,  he  would 
suddenly  break  into  rapturous  songs  of  his  own 
making,  which  fittingly  gave  voice  to  the  joy  of 
living  in  a  world  so  beautiful.  Then  he  would  vary 
the  performance,  and,  as  if,  prompted  by  the  spirit 
of  mischief  or  of  ridicule,  borrow  the  tunes  of  other 
birds  and  sing  them  better  than  they.  He  would 
whistle  the  blithe  love-strains  and  the  shrill  war- 
notes  of  the  flaming  Cardinal,  and  have  that  hot- 
tempered  redcoat  flashing  out  of  the  evergreen 
shrubbery  to  find  and  fight  the  rival  who  dared  to 
invade  his  petty  realm.  He  would  gush  out  the 
noisy  love-song  of  the  Wren ;  and  all  of  the  court- 
ing Wrens  in  his  vicinity  would  pop  out  of  holes 
and  corners,  and,  with  rasping  angry  warnings,  go 
jerking  and  bobbing  around  through  hedges  and 
bushes  searching  for  that  uninvited  gallant  of 
Wren  society  that  they  might  drive  him  away. 
Then,  from  the  amused  Minstrel's  perch  would 
sound  the  premature  pipe  of  the  partridge,  the 
mew  of  the  catbird,  and  the  flute-like  note  of  the 
upland  plover,  whose  voices  he  had  not  then  heard 
since  the  preceding  summer,  but  remembered  them 


The  Minstrel  of  Birdland  13 

as  well  as  if  he  had  heard  them  only  a  moment  be- 
fore he  so  closely  mimicked  them. 

When  March,  the  month  of  roses  in  that  region, 
came,  the  Minstrel  more  than  ever  poured  forth  his 
liquid  songs  from  early  morn,  through  most  of  the 
day,  and,  at  intervals,  through  the  milder  moon- 
light nights.  From  the  tops  of  the  tallest  trees, 
the  pointed  summits  of  the  cedars,  the  roof -cap  of 
the  mansion,  or  poised  lightly  floating  in  the  air, 
he  sang  as  if  all  of  bird-life  were  but  the  sing- 
ing. 

But,  as  he  selected  his  numerous  stands  or 
perches  in  giving  full  vent  to  his  vocal  talents,  he 
always  avoided  a  thick,  trellis-trailed  bush  or  tree 
of  the  Marechal  Neil  rose,  which  had  grown  to  be 
as  large  and  lofty  as  the  living-room  of  the  man- 
sion. It  was  an  ideal  place  for  his  singing,  with 
long  tempting  sprays  convenient  for  his  rest,  as 
those  slender  rose-limbs,  bearing  opening  buds  and 
full-blown  flowers  of  pale  gold,  swung  slowly  back 
and  forth  in  the  breeze  just  as  most  singing  mock- 
ing-birds like  their  perches  to  swing. 

Although  that  rose-tree,  which  had  long  ceased 


14       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

to  be  a  mere  climbing  vine,  was  near  the  mansion 
the  Minstrel  knew  that  there  he  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  his  human  friends  and  admirers.  Guided 
by  the  limited  wisdom  of  bird-kind  he  avoided  that 
particular  rose-tree  just  because  he  wished  to  pro- 
duce the  idea  that  it  was  not  of  the  least  interest 
to  him.  Yet,  in  short  intervals  between  his  songs, 
when  he  fancied  himself  unseen  by  any  other  eyes 
than  those  of  his  silent,  secretive  and  very  busy 
mate,  he  would  hastily  snatch  up  a  dead  twig  or  a 
pliant  straw  and  furtively  fly  to  the  heart  of  the 
huge  bush. 

There  Lady  Mocking-bird  and  he  were  building 
a  nice  nest,  which  was  very  rough  and  ugly  outside, 
but  neatly  lined  with  hay  and  horse-hair  within. 

No  cunning  house-cat  nor  cruel  night-owl  had 
seen  or  suspected  anything  of  the  building  of  that 
snug  bird-home  when  it  was  finished  before  the  first 
of  April.  The  Twins  had  known  all  about  it  from 
the  day  that  the  birds  had  carried  the  first  twig 
into  the  rose-tree.  But  the  mocking-birds  never 
knew  that  the  Twins  knew;  and  they  were  hap- 
pier in  such  ignorance,  for  in  that  most  sacred 


The  Minstrel  of  Birdland 15 

secret  they  dared  trust  even  no  one  they  might  love 
and  trust  in  everything  else. 

Before  Easter  Madam  Mocking-bird  was  sitting 
on  four  speckled  eggs  in  the  hidden  nest;  and, 
somewhat  silenced  by  his  anxiety,  the  Minstrel 
sang  fewer  songs,  and  those  were  in  softer  strains, 
and  more  distant  ever  from  the  place  they  had 
chosen  for  the  family  roof -tree.  Very  often  he 
would  secretly  and  silently  slip  home  bearing  a  fat 
bug,  a  juicy  worm,  or  a  fine  big  grasshopper  to  his 
patient  and  hungry  mate. 

But  their  home  affairs  were  not  destined  to  go 
on  with  undisturbed  smoothness.  One  day,  when 
the  Birdland  Boy  was  not  far  from  the  rose-tree, 
he  was  startled  by  loud,  terrified  bird-screams  com- 
ing from  its  heart. 

"  Chooray!  Chooray!  Chooray!"  continually  or 
repeatedly  cried  the  frightened  birds:  "Chooray! 
Chooray !  Chooray !  " 

Knowing  that  this  was  the  alarm  cry  of  mock- 
ing-birds when  their  nest  was  in  desperate  danger 
from  some  foe  that  they  could  not  resist,  and  that 
the  screams  meant  in  their  language:  "  Go  away! 


16       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Go  away!  Go  away!,"  the  Boy  quickly  rushed  to 
the  rescue  of  his  frightened  feathered  friends. 

Several  birds  of  other  kinds  had  reached  the 
scene  of  trouble  when  he  arrived;  and  they  were 
all  circling  the  rose-tree  with  twitters  of  fear  or 
cries  of  anger,  convinced  that  their  common  foe, 
the  fierce  barn-owl  was  again  abroad  in  the  day, 
as  he  sometimes  though  very  rarely  happens  to  be, 
and  that  he  was  hidden  there  in  that  very  rose-tree 
on  robbery  or  murder  bent, 

Looking  closely  into  the  tangled  center  of  the 
great  bush,  the  Birdland  Boy  beheld  a  long  dark- 
brown  snake,  which  very  much  resembled  the  twist- 
ing trunk-stems  up  which  it  had  climbed  to  the 
outer  edge  of  the  nest,  where  it  was  getting  ready 
to  finish  its  raid  by  swallowing  the  eggs.  Re- 
stricted by  their  close  quarters  the  birds  were  fight- 
ing this  hideous  nest-robber  with  beating  wings 
and  plunging  beaks  and  repeating  their  despairing 
cries  for  help.  The  Boy,  recognizing  the  snake 
as  the  "  horserunner,"  and  knowing  that  it  was 
harmless  to  human  beings,  quickly  procured  a 
handy  fishing  pole,  punched  the  serpent  to  the 


The  Minstrel  of  Birdiand 17 

ground  in  time  to  save  the  endangered  eggs,  and 
killed  it  with  a  few  blows  of  the  butt  of  the  slender 
bamboo  rod. 

Later,  just  on  the  eve  of  their  hatching,  there 
must  have  been  another  like  attempt  to  steal  the 
eggs;  for  the  Twins  found  a  brilliant  little  coral 
snake  lying  dead  on  the  ground  beneath  the  nest. 
Getting  it  out  for  nearer  inspection  of  that  gaudy 
serpent,  with  its  bands  and  rings  of  red,  gold  and 
black,  they  discovered  that  it  had  been  very  re- 
cently killed,  as  its  body  was  still  supple  and  a  tiny 
red  drop  oozed  freshly  from  the  back  of  its  small 
and  venomous  head.  Evidently,  as  it  climbed  near 
the  nest,  it  had  been  easily  slain  by  the  birds,  with- 
out any  necessity  of  calling  for  outside  help. 

Then,  when  the  first  feeble  cry  of  "  chee  "  told 
of  new  bird-life  in  the  heart  of  the  rose-tree,  an- 
other deadly  enemy  assailed  that  little  home.  A 
lazy  old  cat,  lying  asleep  in  the  noontime  in  the 
shade  of  a  bush  near,  was  awakened  by  that  help- 
less cry.  Lifting  his  head,  and  raising  his  ears  to 
hear  from  whence  came  that  hungry  wail  of  a 
baby-bird  he  found  out,  when  it  was  repeated, 


18       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

despite  the  hushing  chirp  of  the  anxious  mother. 
That  big  cat  then  rose  to  his  feet,  stretched  him- 
self, shook  each  taloned  paw  in  turn,  licked  his 
whiskered  lips,  and  stealthily  crept  to  the  rose- 
tree,  heedless  of  the  closely  circling  flight  and  the 
angry  cries  of  both  the  parent  birds  at  his  ap- 
proach. Finding  that  he  could  not  reach  the  nest 
from  directly  beneath  it  he  tried  to  climb  up  the 
outer  surface  of  the  giant  rose-bush  to  rob  the  bird- 
cradle  of  its  babies. 

Against  this  third  attack  the  Minstrel  and  his 
mate  neither  wailed  in  terror  nor  screamed  for 
help.  With  wrathful  war-cries  of  "  Churr! 
Churr!  Churr!"  they  assailed  the  murderous 
Tom-cat  with  buffeting  wing  and  thrusting  beaks, 
selecting  his  round  head  and  yellow  eyes  for  such 
beating  and  spearing. 

Their  merciless  foe  could  not  fight  to  advantage 
on  such  a  shaky  and  thorny  battleground;  for,  at 
every  savage  blow  he  struck,  his  own  paws  were 
pierced  and  painfully  wounded  by  sharp  thorns. 
Half  way  up  the  surface  of  the  bush  he  was  forced 
to  halt.  There  he  hung  on  a  little  while  defence- 


"A  SPITEFUL  JAY    .    .    .    SWOOPED  DOWN  AFTER  THE  FLEEING  BEAST."' 


The  Minstrel  of  Birdland 19 

less  against  those  furious  defenders  of  their  home. 
Then,  to  save  his  eyes  from  destruction,  he  leaped 
to  the  ground  and  fled  fast  to  the  old  coach-house 
for  shelter,  being  pursued  most  of  the  way  there 
by  the  valiant  feathered  victors. 

As  the  beaten  cat  was  about  to  enter  the  door- 
way of  that  welcome  refuge  a  spiteful  jay,  who 
had  watched  that  warm  combat  with  mingled  won- 
der, joy  and  envy  from  a  limb  near  its  scene, 
swooped  down  after  the  fleeing  beast,  struck  his 
distended  tail  an  insulting  slap  with  one  of  his 
lusty  wings  and  screeched  a  scornful  jeer  at  him, 
which  scared  the  fugitive  back  into  the  gloomy 
depths  of  the  coach-house  and  up  on  to  the  top  of 
the  ancient  family  chariot. 

After  those  fortunate  escapes  the  Minstrel  and 
his  Lady  Bird  depended  less  on  concealment  and 
more  on  their  own  valor  for  the  protection  of  their 
children.  They  feared  no  bird-foes,  for  none 
dared  meddle  with  them.  They  had  learned  how 
to  conquer  climbing  cats  and  found  that  they 
might  fully  trust  their  human  friends  even  in  their 
private  family  affairs.  Of  birds  it  might  have 


20       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

also  been  written  that  "  the  bravest  are  the  tender- 
est,"  for  the  mocking-bird,  fearless  as  the  kingbird 
of  hawk  or  vulture,  is  remarkably  faithful  to  his 
mate  and  affectionate  to  his  young. 

The  singing  father  grew  silent  and  remained 
mute  when  his  naked,  wide-mouthed  babies  came 
into  the  world.  In  the  days  of  their  short  feathers 
and  long-quills  those  infant  prodigies  had  a  pro- 
digious appetite,  and  ate  at  least  twenty-four 
meals  a  day,  all  four  of  them.  So,  at  that  time, 
although  he  might  sing  them  to  sleep  at  night  with 
a  cradle-song,  he  was  too  weary  from  the  hard 
work  of  feeding  the  family  to  sit  up  after  reason- 
ably early  bedtime  to  amuse  himself  warbling 
moonlight  sonatas  as  he  had  done  in  the  love 
season. 

In  due  time  those  young  birds,  all  having  es- 
caped the  dangers  of  their  early  life,  learned  to 
fly  almost  as  well  as  the  wise  parents  who  had  so 
safely  reared  them.  Then  the  Minstrel-father  be- 
came less  anxious  about  them  and  more  tuneful 
with  his  tongue.  Again  daily  and  nightly  his 
music  floated  on  the  passing  midsummer  hours; 


The  Minstrel  of  Birdland 21 

and  when  the  grown-up  children  at  last  left  the 
old  birdfolks  at  home  to  win  their  own  way  in  the 
wide  world  he  sang  them  his  sweetest  and  saddest 
farewell  song. 

For  two  months  more  the  Minstrel  sang  in 
strains  softened  with  memorial  sorrow  for  the 
flowers  that  were  fading,  the  leaves  that  were  fall- 
ing and  the  happiest  days  of  all  the  year  that  were 
fast  fleeting  away. 

At  last,  when  November  touched  his  land  with 
its  white  fingers  of  frost,  the  Minstrel  became 
mute  again ;  and  he  and  his  demure  mate  appeared 
to  become  but  humble  and  silent  thrushes.  And, 
as  such,  they  seemed  happy  to  remain  until  the 
coming  of  another  spring,  with  its  warm  soft 
winds,  its  budding  trees  and  its  blooming  flowers. 


Ill 


Jttr*  jpov  #0011* 
jjossuw 


f  I   AHE    Birdland    Boy   hurried   through    his 
breakfast  before  the  melting  of  the  frost 
on  the  lawn  one  morning  late  in  Novem- 
ber.   Old  Jason,  the  grey-headed  woodsman,  who 
was  a  servant  of  all  work  about  the  house  and 

grounds,  had  promised,  the  previous  evening,  to 
22 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Madam  Possum      23 

take  him  out  to  the  woods  immediately  after  the 
early  morning  meal.  Hence  he  rushed  through 
that  repast  as  can  only  a  healthy  boy  with  a  big 
event  in  view;  and,  when  he  had  finished  it,  he  ran 
out  through  the  back  gate  of  the  grounds  to  the 
first,  or  main  field  road,  which  was  there  joined  by 
another  road  leading  back  to  the  forest  behind  the 
plantation. 

According  to  promise,  his  old  black  friend  was 
patiently  waiting  for  the  Boy  at  the  junction  of 
the  field  and  forest  roads.  The  old  man  was 
seated  on  the  plank  platform  of  a  primitive  kind 
of  cart  called  a  "  woodrack,"  close  behind  an 
ancient  grey  mule  harnessed  between  the  shafts 
of  that  rude  vehicle.  The  venerable  driver's  legs 
were  dangling  down  over  the  front  edge  of  that 
cart  close  before  the  right  wheel  of  its  single  pair, 
and  his  right  hand  was  idly  toying  with  the  home- 
made rawhide  whip,  which  was  necessary  to  move 
the  mule  to  the  proper  or  desired  pace. 

"  Good  mawnin',  Little  Mahster.  De  sun's 
gittin'  moughty  high,  an*  we's  got  to  be  back  home 
wid  dat  load  o'  firewood  befo'  dinner-time.  Jump 


24       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

in,  let's  be  movin'  along,"  cried  old  Jason,  as  the 
panting  boy  came  running  to  the  roadside. 

Of  course  the  Birdland  Boy  jumped  in  as 
quickly  as  he  could.  Taking  the  rope-reins  from 
the  old  driver's  ready  left  hand,  and,  also,  borrow- 
ing the  long  supple  whip,  he  stood  up  on  the  flat 
sideless  floor  of  the  woodcart,  started  off  Old  Abe, 
as  Jason's  mule  was  affectionately  called,  and 
tried  to  drive  that  cart  just  as  the  ancient  Romans 
drove  their  war-chariots,  and  just  as  the  expert 
negro  teamsters  of  the  Louisiana  sugar  planta- 
tions drive  their  great  rushing  and  rumbling  four- 
mule  cane  wagons  into  and  out  of  the  canefields 
in  the  busy  grinding  season  of  the  factories.  In 
copying  that  ancient  and  modern  style  of  driving 
standing  he  leant  back  on  his  reins,  met  the  jolts 
and  tilts  of  his  cart  with  the  usual  limp  body  and 
leg  bends  of  the  expert  black  teamsters,  and  tried 
to  talk  their  kind  of  noisy  mule-talk  to  move  his 
reluctant  old  steed  to  a  speedy  gait;  but  that 
steady  and  stubborn  animal  refused  to  rush  his 
chariot  faster  than  four  miles  an  hour. 

When    they    reached    the    forest,    the    young 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Madam  Possum      25 

charioteer,  guided  by  the  distant  sound  of  chop- 
ping axes,  took  the  right  direction  to  find  a  squad 
of  negro  woodcutters;  and  they  arrived  at  their 
journey's  end  within  an  hour  of  its  starting. 

There  old  Jason  dropped  his  calling  of  cart- 
man  for  a  little  while  to  take  up  that  of  a  trapper. 
He  left  his  woodrack  to  be  loaded  by  the  more  ac- 
tive woodchoppers  with  its  half-cord  of  ash,  while 
he  guided  his  young  white  companion  on  the  round 
of  several  rough  "  varmint-traps  "  he  had  set  in 
the  surrounding  woods. 

They  had  not  walked  more  than  a  fourth  of  a 
mile  from  the  limited  clearing  made  by  the  wood- 
cutters when  they  reached  a  "  rabbit-gum  "  that 
had  recently  been  sprung  by  game.  This  rabbit 
trap  was  made  of  a  short  section  of  a  small  hollow 
log,  which  was  closed  at  each  end  with  a  sliding 
gate,  both  gates  being  held  up  by  one  trigger  let 
down  through  an  auger-hole  in  the  top  of  the  log 
in  its  middle,  or  the  same  distance  from  each  gate, 
so  that  this  baited  trigger  might  catch  a  rabbit 
either  coming  or  going. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Ole  Molly  Hyar,  what  you  doin' 


26       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

dar?  You  ain't  settin'  in  yo'«  corner  smokin'  yo' 
seegar!"  joyfully  chuckled  old  Jason  as  he  be- 
held his  closed  trap. 

Stepping  briskly  up  to  his  rabbit-gum,  he  lifted 
one  end  of  it,  heard  the  sound  of  scratching  inside, 
carefully  hefted  its  extra  weight  to  judge  of  the 
possible  size  of  the  prize  it  contained,  and  happily 
exclaimed : 

"  He  sho'ly  is  a  lurge  one ! " 

Then  he  laid  down  the  end  of  the  log-trap,  cau- 
tiously lifted  the  gate  near  him  just  high  enough 
to  let  in  his  forearm,  and  slipped  his  wrinkled 
hand  and  wrist  in  the  hollow  to  feel  for  his  game. 
Then,  suddenly  jerking  back  his  forearm,  he 
gazed  with  a  look  of  great  astonishment  at  the 
pink  print  of  nipping  teeth  on  his  tough  black 
knuckles,  and  sharply  cried: 

"  Good  Lawsy!  —  dat  ain't  no  rabbit!  —  what  I 
doin'  pokin'  my  fingers  in  a  hole  sich  a  fool  way 
widout  knowin'  ef  a  snake,  or  a  mink,  or  sumpen 
wusser  moughtn't  be  on  de  inside  des  a  waitin'  to 
pizen  me ! " 

Then,  rubbing  the  hand  that  he  had  probably 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Madam  Possum      27 

saved  from  a  painful  bite  by  its  quick  withdrawal, 
and  stooping  low  to  look  closely  on  the  damp  dead 
leaves  about  the  trap,  he  moved  very  slowly 
toward  its  further  end.  Before  he  had  scanned 
all  the  ground  to  the  other  end  of  the  log  the  grey 
woodsman  straightened  up  and  gleefully  shouted: 

"  It's  a  big  ole  possum !  ramblin'  atter  dayr 
break,  when  he'd  'a'  better  been  at  home!  What 
he  doin'  atter  sweet  'tater  bait  I  dunno;  but  I  sho' 
is  gwineter  bait  him  wid  plenty  o'  'taters  at  to- 
morrer's  dinner! " 

The  delighted  old  trapper  kneeled  on  the  dew- 
damp  ground,  raised  the  gate  of  the  safe  end  of 
the  trap  to  its  full  height,  and  eagerly  dragged 
forth  his  fat  snarling  captive  by  the  tail.  It  was 
very  useless  for  that  "  varmint  "  to  instantly  feign 
death  as  he  did  on  being  forcibly  dragged  out  into 
the  full  light;  for  one  tap  of  the  trapper's  tough 
hickory  hunting-stick  at  once  finished  his  feasts 
and  his  feignings. 

Old  Jason  decided,  after  re-setting  his  rabbit 
gum,  that  it  was  getting  rather  late  to  go  further 
into  the  woods  considering  the  time  he  was  ex- 


28       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

pected  back  home  with  the  firewood.  So,  con- 
cluding that  the  capture  of  such  a  prize  was  glory 
enough  for  one  day,  and  leaving  the  round  of  the 
rest  of  his  traps  for  another,  he  slung  his  possum 
over  his  back,  and,  with  the  boy  closely  following 
him,  went  back  to  the  clearing  where  the  cart  had 
been  left.  There  the  deceased  possum  was  laid  in 
due  honor  on  top  of  the  load  of  cordwood  with 
which  the  woodrack  had  been  piled,  the  mule 
drawing  it  was  started  homeward,  and  the  two 
drivers,  who  had  come  out  to  the  woods  on  it 
empty,  willingly  walked  back  home  to  lessen  the 
weight  of  Old  Abe's  rather  heavy  load. 

On  their  homeward  way  the  old  man,  full  of 
happiness  at  his  trapping  success,  and  hoping  to 
make  his  young  companion  almost  as  happy  as 
himself,  started,  with  only  a  sudden  laugh  for  its 
preface,  the  following  tale  about  how  Mr.  Fox 
fooled  Madam  Possum.  Said  he,  with  one  more 
fond  look  at  his  fat  and  still  grinning  prize: 

"  Dat  ole  Possum  ridin'  home  free  up  dar  whilst 
me  an'  you  has  to  walk  back  puts  me  in  mine  o' 
one  o'  dem  tales  'bout  de  oletime  '  varmints '  mv 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Madam  Possum      29 

fambly  brimg  down  here  f'om  ole  Virginny  when 
I  war  a  boy  some  bigger'n  you.  Dat  'ticular  tale 
were  about  Mr.  Fox  an'  de  grapes  he  couldn' 
git,  an'  Madam  Possum  an'  de  'simmonses  she 
got. 

"  One  day,  whilst  Mr.  Fox  was  gwine  along 
thew  de  woods  an'  de  thickets  lookin'  for  sumpen 
to  eat,  an'  des'  as  hongry  as  he  could  be,  an'  as  I 
is  now,  he  come  across  a  grapevine  clammin'  high 
up  a  tree,  wid  a  whole  lot  o'  pu'pple  bunches  o' 
grapes  shinin'  in  de  sun  way  up  at  de  top  o'  de 
tree.  He  stopped  dar  a  long  time,  wid  his  mouf 
fa'rly  waterin'  for  dem  nice  ripe  grapes,  and  tryin' 
to  study  out  some  way  to  reach  'um. 

"  At  las'  a  smart  notion  struck  sly  Mr.  Fox  all 
at  once,  an'  he  puts  out  an'  trotted  off  swif  an' 
stretways  to  fin'  his  frien',  Mr.  Possum  to  do  the 
needful  clammin'  to  git  dem  grapes.  When  he 
reached  Mr.  Possum's  house  he  foun'  Mr.  Possum 
was  away  f'om  home,  wood-ramblin*  somewhars 
or  udder;  but  Mrs.  Possum  was  settin'  inside  wide 
awake  an'  lookin'  out  o'  de  upper  hole  in  de  holler 
which  dey  had  for  a  window.  So  Mr.  Fox,  he 


30       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

scraped  an'  he  bowed,  an'  paid  his  'spects  to  de 
lady  o'  de  house,  an'  made  her  his  perlitest  com- 
pliments on  her  good  looks;  an'  atter  a  little  o' 
dat  kind  o'  talk,  he  says: 

'  *  Oh,  Madam  Possum,  does  you  like  grapes? ' 
'  *  I   dunno.     I   ain't  ever  e't  none,'   answers 
Madam  Possum. 

" '  Well,'  went  on  Mr.  Fox,  *  grapes  is 
moughty  good  to  eat,  an*  ef  you  keers  to  try  'um, 
I  knows  whar  dar's  some  o'  de  nices'  dat  ever 
growed,  up  a  tree  in  de  middle  o'  de  woods;  an' 
ef  you'll  come  along  wid  me  right  now  an'  pick 
'um  we'll  'vide  'um  all  betwixt  us,  share  and  share 
alike.' 

"  At  dat  Madam  Possum  shet  up  de  house  jest 
as  soon  as  she  could  an'  jined  Mr.  Fox  on  de 
groun',  an'  dey  bofe  trotted  an'  ambled  off  to- 
gedder  to  de  tree  wid  de  high  grapevine.  Dar  dey 
stopped ;  an'  Madam  Possum  looked  up  at  de  ripe 
grapes  whar  Mr.  Fox  pinted  'um  out.  Den  Mr. 
Fox  he  tells  her  to  clam'  up  de  tree  an'  pick  'um 
an'  th'ow  'um  down  for  him  to  Vide  'um  in  even 
piles,  like  he  promised. 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Madam  Possum      31 

"Whilst  Madam  Possum  is  doin'  de  clammin' 
Mr.  Fox  sots  down  on  de  groun'  on  his  quarters 
an'  qurls  his  bushy  tail  'roun'  his  ha'nches,  an'  he 
grins,  holdin'  his  drippin'  tongue  out  o'  his  mouf, 
whilst  he  looks  up  at  de  ripe  grapes  out  o'  one 
eye,  an'  at  Madam  Possum  clammin'  de  tree  out 
o'  de  udder. 

"  Soon  Madam  Possum  reaches  de  ripe  bunches 
an'  pulls  'um  an'  th'ows  'um  down  on  de  groun' 
widout  tu'nnin'  her  face  to  f oiler  'um  an'  see  whar 
dey  falls. 

"  Mr.  Fox  he  eats  up  'all  de  grapes  as  fas'  as 
dey  hits  de  groun',  leavin'  nuffin'  but  de  stems  an' 
de  seeds,  which  he  puts  in  a  little  pile. 

"  When  Madam  Possum  had  finished  her 
pullin'  an'  clammed  back  down  de  tree  to  git  her 
share  o'  de  grapes  she'd  picked  an'  drapped  to  de 
groun',  Mr.  Fox  he  says,  standin'  up  wid  his  com- 
pany manners,  smilin'  an'  perlite. 

"  '  Take  your  seat,  Madam  Possum.  Set  down, 
Madam.  I's  lef  you  all  de  bestes'  part  o'  the 
grapes,  dese  nice  seeds  an'  stems,  set  right  down 
an'  eat  'um  an'  see  how  good  dey  is.' 


32       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  Madam  Possum  didn'  bodder  herse'f  none 
over  de  dry  stems,  but  she  chawed  an'  swallered 
some  o'  de  bitter  seeds;  den  she  put  de  rest  o'  de 
seeds  keerfully  in  her  waist-pouch,  and  she  git  up 
an'  say,  des  as  perlite  an'  smilin'  as  Mr  Fox,  his- 
se'f: 

" '  Thank  you  de  kindes'  for  yo'  fine  treat,  Mr. 
Fox,  I'll  take  some  o'  dese  nice  grape-seeds  home 
wid  me  des  to  recomember  yo'  gre't  favor,  an'  to 
keep  me  f'om  forgittin'  it  when  I  gits  a  chance 
to  pay  it  back.' 

"  Den  she  made  Mr.  Fox  her  bes'  far'well  bow 
an'  scrape  an'  ambled  back  home. 

"  Some  days  atter  dat,  when  Mr.  Fox  was 
snoozin'  at  home,  here  come  Madam  Possum  am- 
blin'  up  like  somebody  totin'  big  news  to  a  neigh- 
bor. She  knocked  at  Mr.  Fox's  door  loud  an'  fas' 
an'  woked  him  up;  an',  when  he  come  to  de  door 
rubbin'  de  sleep  out  o'  his  face  wid  his  befo'-paws, 
she  axes: 

"  *  Oh,  Mr.  Fox,  does  you  like  'simmonses? ' 

"  *  I  dunno,  I  ain't  nerer  taste  none,'  answers 
Mr.  Fox,  yawnin'  an'  stretchin'  like  he  done  for- 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Madam  Possum      33 

got  all  his  good  manners,  or  done  lost  'um  alto- 
gedder. 

'  Well,'  says  Madam  Possum,  talkin'  peart  an' 
lively,  *  wake  up  an'  come  along  wid  me  and  try 
some  of  de  fine  'simmonses  I  des  found  in  a  tree 
jest  loaded  down  wid  'um  in  de  woods  not  so  fur 
f'om  here;  ef  you  does  you'll  sho'ly  say  dat  'sim- 
monses beats  grapes  for  good  eatin'  out  o'  sight 
an'  hearinV 

"Dat  talk  o'  sumpen  better'n  ripe  grapes 
rubbed  all  de  sleep  out  o'  Mr.  Fox's  eyes  quicker'n 
his  paws  could.  So  he  bounces  out  o'  his  house  to 
Madam  Possum,  an'  off  dey  puts,  an'  ag'in  dey 
ambled  an'  trotted  away  togedder  till  dey  come 
to  a  'simmon  tree  full  o'  ripe  an'  green  'sim- 
monses. 

"When  dey  got  dar  Madam  Possum  started 
right  away  to  clam*  dat  tree;  but  befo'  she'd  gone 
more'n  halfways  up  de  trunk  she  stopped  an' 
called  down: 

" '  Mr.  Fox,  I  cyarnt  th'ow  de  'simmonses  down 
to  de  groun'  like  I  done  de  grapes,  bekase  dey's  so 
soft  when  dey's  ripe  dey'd  git  so  badly  squshed  by 


34       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

de  fall  dey  wouldn'  be  fitten  to  eat;  but  I'll  bring 
down  enough  for  bofe  of  us  in  my  pouch.' 

"  Den  Mr.  Fox  sot  down  ag'in  on  his  ha'nches 
an'  qurled  his  bushy  tail  aroun'  'um,  an'  grinned 
wid  his  mouf  wide  open  an'  xlrippin'  water,  an'  his 
bright  eyes  lookin'  up  watchin'  Mrs.  Possum 
pickin'  de  'simmonses. 

"  Madam  Possum,  who  were  de  lurges'  lady  of 
all  her  set  in  all  o'  dem  woods,  had  a  moughty  big 
pouch  at  de  bottom  o'  her  waist;  an'  she  put  all 
de  ripe  'simmonses  in  de  right  side  of  her  nachal 
ridicule;  an'  for  every  ripe  one  she  picked  she 
pulled  a  green  'simmon  an'  dropped  it  in  de  lef' 
side;  an5  when  de  bag  was  full  enough  for  bofe 
she  come  on  down  de  tree. 

"When  she  j'ined  Mr.  Fox  on  de  groun'  she 
says :  *  Company  sarved  fust,  Mr.  Fox,'  an'  she 
ban's  him  out  a  green  'simmon  an'  takes  a  ripe  one 
for  hersef  —  a  green  for  Mr.  Fox,  a  ripe  for 
Madam  Possum  —  green  for  him,  an'  ripe  for  her, 
an'  so  on. 

"  About  de  time  her  'simmonses  was  all  gone 
an'  e't  up  de  green  ones  beginned  to  ack  wid  Mr. 


MR.    FOX'S    MOUF    COMMENCED    TO    PUCKER.'  " 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Madam  Possum      35 

Fox  like  dey  always  does  wid  de  fool  boys  an'  de 
fool  beas'es,  who  don't  know  nuttin'  about  green 
'simmonses  an'  deir  'ceitful  ways. 

"  Mr.  Fox's  mouf  commenced  tx>  pucker,  his 
throat  begin  to  git  thick  in  de  gullet,  his  tongue  to 
draw  up  tight,  an'  his  innerds  to  ache  moughty 
bad. 

"'What  you  laughin'  at,  Mr.  Fox?'  axed 
Madam  Possum  when  dat  wide  mouf  o'  his'n  got 
so  drawed  up  he  couldn'  shet  it  no  mo*. 

"  '  Ar-r-r,  —  goo-ar-r,  goo-ar-ar-ar ! '  goes  Mr. 
Fox,  tryin'  to  talk  back  to  Madam  Possum  an'  ax 
her  what  she  mean  by  playin'  him  sich  a  low  down 
ornery  trick  as  dat.  His  tongue  was  too  twisted 
an'  his  mouf  too  puckered  to  talk,  so  dat  was  de 
bestes'  he  could  do,  dat  *  ar-ar-ar,'  an'  '  goo-ar-ar! ' 

"  Den  says  Madam  Possum,  as  perlite  and 
smilin'  as  Mr.  Fox  was  de  day  o'  de  grapeseed 
dinner :  '  I's  glad,  Mr.  Fox,  you  f  oun'  yo'  'simmon 
feas'  so  fine  it  makes  you  feel  like  singin'  sich  a 
pretty  chune  as  dat.' 

"  At  dat  Mr.  Fox  got  so  fightin'  mad  wid 
Madam  Possum  he  flewed  at  her  like  he  was 


36       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

gwine  to  t'ar  her  to  pieces  right  den  an'  dar;  but 
when  he  bit  de  fust  bite  at  her  he  foun'  he  couldn' 
shet  his  jaws  tight  enough  to  bite  butter,  de  green 
'simmonses  had  drawed  up  his  mouf  so  much. 

"  Den  ole  Madam  Possum  jest  laid  right  down 
on  de  groun'  an'  grinned  way  back  to  her  ears; 
an'  she  squalls  out  to  Mr.  Fox,  skeerin'  him  most 
out  o'  his  senses: 

"  '  'Simmonses  is  better'n  grape-seeds  for  Pos- 
sums, Mr.  Fox;  but  dey's  rank  pizen  for  Foxes, 
and  de  onliest  way  now  for  you  to  unpucker  yo' 
mouf,  ease  yo'  innerds,  an'  /save  yo'  life  is  to  take 
some  right  hot  chicken  soup.  But  you  better  1'arn 
how  to  ketch  young  pullets  befo'  you  tries  to  fool 
ole  Possums.' 

"  When  she  had  her  laff  out,  ole  Lady  Possum 
got  up  an'  ambled  on  home  to  git  dinner  at  a  long 
sight  faster  gait  dan  we's  gwine  home  to  ours 
now." 


IV 


Boctor 


OLD  Jason,  the  black  sage  of  the  planta- 
tion, stopped  his  cart  at  the  back  gate  of 
the  Birdland  grounds  about  the  middle  of 
an  autumn  afternoon,  and  calling  to  one  of  the 
yard-servants  passing  near,  told  him  to  "  go  up 
to  de  house  an*  ax  de  young  boss  ef  he  wouldn.' 
like  to  go  out  to  de  woods  an'  help  to  bait  de 

hawgs  :  "  —  •  with  the  sable  old  greyhead  the  Bird- 
37 


450266 


38       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

land  Boy  was  never  mentioned  by  his  proper 
name,  but  always  affectionately  addressed  as  "  Lit- 
tle Mahster  "  when  spoken  to,  and  spoken  of  as 
"  de  young  boss  "  when  mentioned  to  the  ancient 
negro's  fellow  servants. 

The  grown  hogs  were  allowed  to  roam  in  the 
woods  at  that  season  to  pick  up  newly  fallen 
acorns  and  nuts.  As  the  forest  back  of  the  planta- 
tion was  so  extensive  it  was  necessary  to  call  them 
up  now  and  then  to  a  fenced  hog-lot  between  the 
fields  and  the  woods  to  which  they  were  often 
"  baited  "  with  a  feed  of  corn  to  keep  them  from 
going  wild  and  running  too  far  away. 

The  answer  to  the  old  man's  message  came 
quickly,  with  the  boy  bounding  down  the  steps  and 
running  out  of  the  back  gate  whooping  with  joy 
at  the  prospect  of  another  excursion  to  the  woods 
he  loved  so  well,  and  in  which  he  spent  much  of  his 
spare  time.  "Hello,  *  Uncle '  Jason!"  he  cried, 
as  he  reached  the  dump-cart,  clambered  up  into  its 
box-body  and  scrambled  over  its  slippery  load  of 
freshly  husked  corn  ears,  to  the  driver's  bench  in 
front.  When  he  gained  a  seat  close  beside  the 


How  Dr.  Pig  Cured  Mr.  Wolfs  Toothache     39 

grizzled  driver,  and  nearly  as  close  behind  his  an- 
cient grey  mule,  he  went  on:  "Hello!  where's 
your  calling  horn?  Didn't  you  bring  it  along  with 
you?" 

The  polished  ox-horn,  for  which  he  asked,  was 
not  in  its  usual  place  or  position,  dangling  from  a 
rawhide  thong  looped  over  its  owner's  shoulder. 
The  boy  looked  the  least  bit  disappointed  at  its 
absence,  as,  like  many  of  the  fashionable  stage- 
drivers  of  this  modern  day,  he  fancied  that  the 
noise  of  a  horn  greatly  added  to  the  fun  of  a  drive. 

At  his  question  about  the  horn  old  Uncle  Jason 
put  on  a  blank  look  and  exclaimed :  "  I  sho'ly  mus' 
be  gittin'  right  ole  to  go  away  out  to  de  woods  on 
a  hog-callin'  ja'nt  and  forgit  my  hawn."  Then, 
with  much  chuckling,  he  raked  away  the  piled  up 
corn  from  the  corner  of  the  cart  nearest  his  right 
hand  and  pulled  out  that  instrument  of  torture  or 
temptation,  which  plantation  boys  love  so  well  to 
blow,  and  plantation  hogs  love  so  much  better  to 
hear. 

On  the  way  of  the  cart  toward  the  woods  the  boy 
blew  himself  red  in  the  face  to  produce  the  most 


40       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

inspiring  and  melodious  blasts  possible;  but  the 
old  man  only  grinned  at  his  many  repeated  efforts, 
and  the  venerable  mule  only  shook  his  ears  in  re- 
sponsive disgust  at  the  untimely  discords  that  dis- 
turbed his  meditations  as  he  plodded  his  wood- 
ward way.  But,  despite  Old  Abe's  slow  and  sloth- 
ful progress,  they  reached  the  back  fence,  which 
divided  off  the  hog-lot  from  the  woods,  in  good 
time  for  the  purpose  in  view,  or  about  an  hour  be- 
fore sunset,  and  drew  back  the  closed  sliding  bars 
which  shut  the  opening  between  the  fenced  clear- 
ing and  the  forest. 

"  Now,  gimme  dat  hawn,  Little  Mahster,  an' 
lemme  see  how  I  kin  play  de  proper  hawg-chunes 
on  it,"  said  the  old  man  with  a  hearty  laugh,  as  the 
boy  turned  it  over  to  him.  And  he  produced  mel- 
ody from  it  as  if  the  thing  had  been  a  sweet-toned 
pleading  trumpet.  Its  mellow  winding  notes 
swept  over  the  open  fields  and  floated  far  away 
into  the  deep  woods,  rising,  sinking  and  returning 
in  softened  echoes  until  one  who  heard  it  all  would 
have  wondered  how  such  sounds  could  have  been 
wafted  from  a  common  ox-horn. 


How  Dr.  Pig  Cured  Mr.  Wolfs  Toothache     41 

"  Dar'  dey  comes  in  a  hurry!"  exclaimed  old 
Jason,  after  he  had  stopped  his  blowing  to  listen 
awhile.  A  distant  rustling  of  hundreds  of  feet  in 
the  fallen  forest  leaves  told  him  that  the  herd  had 
caught  the  sound  of  his  seductive  "  hawg-chunes," 
and  far  grunts  and  squeals,  coming  nearer  and 
louder  every  minute,  betokened  that  its  scattered 
members  were  responding  to  their  appeal  in  hog- 
like  haste. 

"  Dar  dey  comes,  leavin'  sweet  ripe  acorns  an' 
fat  hick'ry  nuts  for  nuttin'  but  dis  dry  yaller  corn ! 
But,  no  matter  what  kind  o'  feed  a  hawg's  eatin', 
ef  he  hears  o'  sumpen'  to  eat  somewharselse  he'll 
drap  de  grub  he's  got  an'  run  to  dat  sumpen'  some- 
wharselse :  —  dat's  'zackly  de  same  way  wid  a 
sight  o'  folkses,  too;  dey  ain't  satisfied  wid  what 
dey's  got  hows'ever  good  it  mought  be  but  dey's 
always  ready  to  run  atter  sumpen'  what  moughtn't 
be  any  better,  or  as  good,  for  dat  mattah ! " 

As  the  herd  came  running  and  crowding 
through  the  opened  gap  in  the  fence,  the  driver 
backed  his  cart  up  against  the  side  or  road-fence, 
and  he  and  the  boy  pitched  out  the  yellow  corn- 


42       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

ears  to  the  greedy,  grunting,  squealing  and  scram- 
bling hogs.  After  watching  them  scuffling  over 
their  supper,  and  leaving  the  full  ears  they  had 
grabbed  to  chase  each  other  about  for  what  they 
thought  might  be  choicer  ones,  the  boy  casually 
observed : 

"  Uncle  Jason,  I  wonder  how  that  wild  hog  you 
told  me  about  not  long  ago,  that  was  caught  by 
the  Panther,  who  was  robbed  of  one  of  his  hams 
by  the  Wildcat,  let  himself  get  caught?  You  re- 
member in  that  story  your  Mr.  Wildcat  was  badly 
punished  by  Judge  Bear  for  his  stealing?  " 

"  Law,  Mon,  dat  pig's  done  been  e't  up  an'  for- 
got' sence  ole  Noah  was  a  baby!  "  —  Here  the  old 
man  broke  off  abruptly,  slowly  got  down  from  his 
cart,  walked  around  the  back  corner  of  the  fence, 
closed  the  woods'  gap  with  the  replaced  bars  for 
the  night,  and  climbed  back  to  his  board  driver's 
bench,  all  in  grave  silence.  Then,  after  he  had 
noisily  "  hawed  "  his  mule  and  started  him  home- 
ward, he  turned  with  a  smile  to  the  young  com- 
panion close  beside  him  and  opened  up  another 
woodland  tale  without  further  hint  or  asking: 


How  Dr.  Pig  Cured  Mr.  Wolf's  Toothache     43 

"  Once  upon  a  time  —  as  you  use'  to  read  me  de 
beginnin'  o'  some  moughty  doin's  what  was  tole 
about  in  yo'  chilluns'  story-books  —  I  seed  a  smart 
Pig  on  a  showboat,  what  stopped  at  de  plantashun 
steamboat  landin'  before  de  war,  what  had  a  lot 
mo'  booklarnin'  dan  many  folkses  has,  uther  white 
or  black. 

"  De  Pig  I  seed  on  dat  circus-boat  was  de 
smartes'  Pig  dat  ever  was  bawned.  De  man  what 
owned  him  an'  showed  him  off  would  take  him  out 
on  a  platform  befo'  all  de  hunderds  an'  hunderds 
o'  folkses  what  was  dar,  an'  make  him  stan'  up  on 
his  behine  legs  an'  bow  an'  scrape  to  de  ladies  an' 
everybody  else.  Den  he'd  tell  him  to  sot  down  an' 
do  his  doin's.  An',  mon,  dat  Pig  sot  right  down 
dar  an'  he  counted  better'n  me,  an'  he  figgered 
better'n  a  schoolboy,  an'  he'd  play  High-Low- 
Jack-an'  de  game  better'n  de  man  dat  made  de 
cyards ! 

"  Bimeby  dat  Mr.  Pig  made  up  his  mine  dat  he 
was  too  smart  for  mens  to  make  a  livin'  off  o'  Mm. 
Yas  sar:  he  knowed  it,  lemme  tell  you!  So  he 
runned  away  when  he  got  a  good  fa'r  chance,  an* 


44       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

he  tuk  to  de  woods  to  make  his  own  livin'  amongst 
de  wile  varmints.  Dat  Pig  had  sense  enough  to 
try  to  make  his  livin'  by  his  1'arnin'  instid  o'  gwine 
to  de  gre't  trouble  o'  grubbin'  in  de  groun'  for  it, 
like  folkses  what  dunno  deir  A,  B,  C's  has  to  do. 

"  Well,  when  Mr.  Pig  fetched  up  in  de  woods 
wid  all  dat  book  1'arnin'  in  his  head,  he  set  hisse'f 
up  for  a  doctor  right  off  de  reel.  All  he  ha'  to  do 
to  start  dat  doctor-biz'ness  was  to  look  wise,  to 
walk  wise,  an'  to  grunt  wise.  He  didn'  need  to 
turn  loose  on  de  yuther  varmints  all  what  he  had 
1'arnt  f'om  mens  all  at  once;  bekase  dose  yuther 
varmints  des  ha'  to  look  at  him  to  know  he  had  a 
lot  mo'  in  him  dan  what  he  let  out ;  —  an'  some- 
times some  smart  folkses  fools  yuther  folkses  dat 
same  way,  by  hidin'  what  dey  knows  so  close  dat 
dey  ain't  able  to  find  it  deyse'f  when  dey  needs  it 
bad.  But,  howsom'ever,  all  de  wile  varmints  come 
to  fink  dat  Doctor  Pig  were  de  wises'  creetur'  dat 
ever  walked  in  de  woods. 

"  Only  ole  Jedge  B'ar  didn'  bleeve  in  him  much, 
an*  he  had  no  use  for  live  Pigs  nohow.  Mr. 
Pant'er  was  afeared  to  fool  wid  dat  Pig,  finkin'  he 


How  Dr.  Pig  Cured  Mr.  WolPs  Toothache     45 

might  pizen  him.  Mr.  Wolf  would  ha'  liked  him  a 
heap  mo'  as  fresh  po'k  dan  what  he  did  as  a  doctor, 
but  somehow  or  uther  he  nebber  could  meet  up  wid 
him;  an'  Doctor  Pig  was  moughty  watchful  an* 
moughty  keerful  to  keep  out  o'  de  way  o'  dem 
gre't  big  an'  dangersome  varmints  on  all  o'  his 
short  or  long  visitin'  roun's  in  de  woods. 

"  So  Doctor  Pig  built  hisse'f  a  nice  doctor-shop, 
an*  he  hung  roots  an*  yarbs  an'  sassifras  an'  sich 
to  de  rafters,  an'  he  put  out  his  doctor  sign  on  de! 
door.  An'  soon  mos'  o'  de  ailin'  varmints,  an' 
many  o'  de  well  ones,  what  felt  sho'  dey  was  ailin* 
mos'  o'  de  time,  bad  wedder  or  good,  come  up 
steppin'  lame  or  steppin'  slow,  sayin'  dey  was 
feelin'  moughty,  moughty  po'ly  an'  axin'  for  some 
o'  his  doctor  stuff.  Doctor  Pig  would  feel  deir 
pulse  an'  count  as  fur  as  he  could  go,  an'  make  'um 
poke  out  deir  tongues,  lookin'  moughty  solemn  in 
it  all.  Den  he'd  figger  an'  spell  out  deir  doses  an' 
roll  up  his  pills  an'  wrap  up  his  powders  an*  han' 
'um  aroun',  'til  he  had  mos'  everybody  in  de  woods 
comin'  his  way. 

"  But,  like  I  tole  you  befo',  Jedge  B'ar  was 


46       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

gittin'  too  ole  to  ramble  fur  f'om  home,  an'  he 
never  happen  to  run  across  de  new  doctor.  Mr. 
Wolf  didn't  uther;  but  he  hunted  him  high  an'  he 
hunted  him  low ;  he  hunted  him  nigh  an'  he  hunted 
him  fur.  Ef  Doctor  Pig  hadn't  been  so  smart  as 
he  were  he  sho'ly  couldn'  ha'  outwit'  Mr.  Wolf  so 
long;  but  he  did  outwit  him  for  de  longes',  an', 
wid  all  o'  Mr.  Wolf's  hard  huntin',  deir  trails 
nebber  j'ined.  Den  Mr.  Wolf  tried  to  ketch  him 
at  home  in  his  house  by  day,  an'  he  tried  to  ketch 
him  dar  by  night;  but  every  time  he  reached  de 
house  de  door  was  locked  tight  an'  Doctor  Pig 
were  on  its  safe  side. 

"  Mr.  Wolf  turned  over  in  his  mine  all  de  proj- 
icks  he  knowed,  an'  he  stay  awake  sometimes  all 
night  to  study  out  a  new  plan  to  ketch  Doctor  Pig. 
Bimeby,  one  bright  moonlight  night,  de  right  no- 
tion struck  him  all  at  once;  an'  up  he  jumped  an' 
•off  he  trotted  in  a  tur'ble  hurry  todes  de  doctor- 
shop  in  de  middle  o'  de  woods.  When  he  got  dar 
he  sot  down  on  his  ha'nches  right  befo'  de  door  an' 
holler: 

"  '  Woo-oo-oo!  —  Woo-o-o-o-o! ' 


How  Dr.  Pig  Cured  Mr.  Wolfs  Toothache     47 

"  Doctor  Pig  never  move  nor  stir. 

"  *  Wooo-ooo-ooo  1  —  Wooo-o-o-o! ' 

"Doctor  Pig  never  say  a  word,  but  he  tiptoe 
easy  to  de  door  an'  he  peep  thew  de  keyhole  at  Mr. 
Wolf  settin'  out  dar  on  de  groun',  black  as  his  own 
shadder,  wailin'  in  de  moonshine. 

"  *  Wooo-ooo-ooo!  —  Wooo-ooo-ooo! '  howls  Mr. 
Wolf  wusser  an'  wusser. 

"  *  What's  de  matter,  Mr.  Wolf,  is  you  singin'  to 
de  moon? '  axed  Doctor  Pig,  talking  thew  de  key- 
hole. 

"  *  Oh,  Doctor,  Doctor?  wails  Mr.  Wolf,  '  I's 
got  de  toofache  moughty  bad!  Won't  you  please 
come  out  here  wid  yo'  toofdraws  an*  pull  it  out  for 
me  an'  stop  de  mizz'ry?  Oh  me,  — wooo-ooo-ooo! 
—  Wooo-ooo ! ' 

"  *  I  never  pulls  no  wolf-toofes,  nuther  any 
kine  o*  teefs.  You  better  go  to  a  reg'lar  toof- 
doctor  to  git  yo'  toof  pulled  out/  answers  Doctor 

Pig. 

"'Oh-wooo-ooo!  dis  tur'ble  pain  makes  me  too 
weak  to  walk,'  cries  Mr.  Wolf  fallin'  over  on  his 
side  flat  on  de  groun'. 


48       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"'Humph!  humph!  humph!  —  howlin'  don't 
cure  no  toof ache ! '  grunts  Doctor  Pig. 

"  Den  Mr.  Wolf  stop  howlin'  a  while,  an'  he 
say :  '  Oh,  Doctor  Pig,  all  de  varmints  in  de  woods 
says  you's  de  bestes'  doctor  dat  ever  walked  de 
yearth;  dey  claims  dat  you  kin  cure  de  aguer,  you 
kin  stop  de  stomick-ache,  you  kin  ease  de  rheuma- 
tiz,  an'  you  kin  heal  wown's,  an'  you's  got  a  way  to 
distrack  teefs  widout  no  pain.' 

"  *  Does  yo'  toof  hurt  you  bad,  Mr.  Wolf? '  axes 
Doctor  Pig  at  dat  sort  o'  talk. 

' '  Oh-wooo-ooo !  —  moughty,  moughty  bad,  it's 
fa'rly  runnin'  me  crazy  wid  de  pain,  an'  I's  come 
to  you  bekase  I  know  you's  de  onliest  doctor  in  de 
worl'  what  kin  stop  dis  kind  o'  toof  ache/  says  ole 
Mr.  Wolf  betwixt  his  moanin*  spells. 

"  Dat  praise  about  his  big  name  in  de  woods 
cotched  Doctor  Pig,  an'  made  him  so  proud  dat  he 
los'  his  sharp  wits  right  dar.  So,  atter  takin'  a 
good  look  at  Mr.  Wolf  layin'  on  de  groun'  lookin' 
moughty  weak,  an'  '  wooin' '  loud  an'  low,  Doctor 
Pig  goes  an'  rummages  in  his  doctor-box  an'  picks 
up  his  toof-draws,  goes  back  to  de  door  an'  unlocks 


How  Dr.  Pig  Cured  Mr.  Wolfs  Toothache     49 

it,  an'  struts  out  to  Mr.  Wolf  wid  his  most  pom- 
pdous  walk. 

"  *  Now,  hold  up  yo'  head,'  says  he  to  Mr. 
Wolf.  '  Open  yo'  mouf  wide,  slack  back  yo' 
long  tongue,  an'  lemme  take  a  look  at  dat  bad 
toof.' 

"  An'  Mr.  Wolf  jumped  up  quick,  an'  open  his 
rnouf  moughty  wide,  an',  mon,  ole  Gabrul  would 
a  blowed  his  hawn  right  den  an'  right  dar  for 
smart  Doctor  Pig  ef  it  hadn'  'a'  been  for  his  book- 
1'arnin'. 

"  Soon  as  he  lepped  up  f'om  de  groun'  Mr. 
Wolf,  wid  his  mouf  opened  wide  enough  to 
'zamine  de  lastes'  o'  his  back  teefs,  grabbed  Doctor 
Pig  back  o'  de  neck.  In  co'se  Doctor  Pig  begin  to 
squeal  his  loudes'  too  late  for  squealin';  den, 
quicker'n  Mr.  Wolf's  teefs  could  tighten  down,  de 
idee  come  to  his  head,  sence  varmint-hollerin' 
couldn'  save  him,  he'd  try  dat  show-talk  what  he 
1'arned  f'om  mens  an'  recomembered  yit. 

"  '  One-two-free ! '  grunts  Doctor  Pig. 

"  Dat  startles  Mr.  Wolf,  an'  he  slacks  his  holt 
on  Doctor  Pig  a  bit,  lowers  his  tail  a  little,  cocks 


50       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

his  ears,  an'  walls  his  eyes  aroun'  to  see  ef  a  man 
moughtn't  be  nigh. 

"'A-B-C-D!'  louder  grunts  Doctor  Pig;  an' 
Mr.  Wolf  turns  loose  his  tight  jaw-holt,  an'  whirls 
roun'  an'  aroun',  lookin'  ev.erywhars  to  see  who's 
doin'  dat  talkin'. 

"  '  High-Low-Jack-an'-de-Game ! '  shouts  Doc- 
tor Pig.  Mr.  Wolf  knows,  for  sho'  an'  sart'in, 
dat's  rale  man-talk,  an'  he  tuks  his  tail  betwixt  his 
long  behine-legs  an'  puts  out  f'om  dar  de  bestes' 
he  could;  an'  he  must  be  runnin'  yit,  bekase  he 
ain't  never  come  back  to  dese  woods  sence  dat 
time. 

"When  Mr.  Wolf  was  good  an'  gone  Doctor 
Pig  goes  back  in  de  house,  an',  atter  lockin'  his 
door  ag'in,  gits  him  some  sahve  an'  rubs  it  on  his 
neck,  whar  Mr.  Wolf's  teefs  hadn'  much  more'n 
scratched  thew  de  skin,  den  he  eats  a  little  snack 
an*  goes  to  bed  to  be  ready  for  biz'ness  in  de 
mawnin*. 

"  An'  dat  sho'ly  was  one  time  when  bookl'arnm' 
kep'  de  Wolf  f'om  de  door,  like  de  preacher  says." 


HE    TUKS    HIS   TAIL    BETWIXT    HIS    LONG    BEHINE  -  LEGS    AN     PUTS ' 
OUT   F'OM   DAR   DE    BESTEs'    HE   COULD.'  " 


V 

erotonitifl  of  Ujc  tuugtitv* 


ONE   of  those   warm   nights  of  the  early 
spring  when  the  family  slept  with  all  of 
the    bedroom    windows    wide    open,    the 
Minstrel  of  Birdland,  as  the  favorite  mocking-bird 
of  the  place  had  long  been  known,  began  singing 

one  of  his  sweetest  nocturnes.    Perched  very  near 
51 


52       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

one  of  the  windows  of  the  Birdland  Girl,  who  had 
not  long  retired,  he  must  have  meant  to  sing  her 
a  special  serenade. 

The  full  moon  had  climbed  high  above  the  tops 
of  the  live-oaks  east  of  the  mansion,  and  bathed  the 
lower  shrubbery  and  lawns  in  its  silvery  radiance. 
The  night-breeze  from  the  Gulf  stirred  the  leaves 
of  the  trees,  bushes  and  vines  until  they  seemed  to 
dance  in  the  moonlight  like  fairies  to  the  tinkling 
of  their  own  music,  and  the  fragrance  of  night- 
blooming  flowers  was  wafted  about  as  if  it  might 
have  been  the  perfume  floating  from  fairy 
gowns. 

As  the  drowsy  girl  listened  to  the  low  music  of 
the  leaves  and  the  sweet  melody  of  the  bird,  that 
gifted  songster,  through  some  remarkable  magic, 
gradually  drifted  from  his  warbling  into  talking, 
and  he  told  the  sleepy  maid  the  following  most 
marvelous  tale  about  the  affairs  of  the  birdfolk  of 
many  families. 

"  In  the  good  old  times,"  said  the  mocking-bird, 
"  before  snares  and  bows  and  guns  were  invented 
and  used  for  the  fun  of  boys  and  men  and  the 


The  Crowning  of  the  Kingbird 53 

death  of  birds,  and  before  millions  of  birds  per- 
ished in  their  prime  every  year,  merely  that  their 
plumage  might  adorn  the  fittings  of  womenfolk, 
the  birds  were  the  happiest  of  all  the  beings  living 
in  this  world.  Fruit  and  wild  seeds  and  grains 
formed  their  principal  food;  and  they  also  de- 
voured such  insects  as  were  destructive  to  vegeta- 
tion to  prevent  the  reduction  of  the  natural  food 
supply  and  ward  off  the  danger  of  starvation  in 
any  country  of  the  world. 

"  In  those  far  distant  days  everybody  had 
plenty  to  eat,  all  were  content,  and  this  condition 
of  things  should  have  lasted  much  longer  than  it 
did  but  for  the  folly  of  those  of  our  feathered  kind 
who  never  knew  how  happy  they  were.  The 
trouble  arose  because  it  was  entirely  too  easy  for 
the  birds  to  pick  a  living.  Working  hours  were  so 
short  that  those  of  idleness  were  much  too  long. 
Bird-life  grew  very  dull  with  so  little  to  do,  and  so 
few  known  ways  of  spending  so  much  spare  time. 
Perpetual  chatting  and  singing  and  dancing  be- 
came tiresome;  and,  weary  of  all  the  usual  pleas- 
ures, some  birds  felt  that  a  few  changes  in  our 


54       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

social  ways  were  needed  to  preserve  the  happiness 
of  birdkind. 

"  The  Jay,  who  is  at  the  bottom  of  most  of  the 
mischief  in  the  bird-world,  profiting  by  the  grow- 
ing discontent  of  his  pleasure-worn  friends,  pro- 
posed that  the  primitive  rules  of  birdkind  be  put 
aside,  and  new  ones  be  made  for  a  trial.  He  ad- 
vised that,  instead  of  all  birds  being  considered  on 
equal  terms,  with  equal  rights,  as  they  were,  bird 
society  should  be  divided  into  different  classes  and 
ranks. 

"  According  to  the  Jay's  plan,  which  he  thrust 
forward  everywhere  like  the  pert  busybody  that  he 
is,  the  general  food  supply  should  be  shared  ac- 
cording to  the  strength  and  appetite  of  its  eaters; 
and  every  bird  who  could  show  a  family  crest 
should  be  enrolled  in  a  new  Nobility,  and  a  King 
should  be  chosen,  so  that  power,  rank  and  royalty 
should  take  the  place  of  common  equality. 

"  In  forming  that  last  idea  the  Jay  did  not  for- 
get that  he  had  a  'fine  family-crest,  himself.  The 
Crows,  who  are  big  cousins  of  the  Jay,  and  are  al- 
most as  wicked  as  he,  held  a  caucus  over  that 


The  Crowning  of  the  Kingbird  55 

proposition  that  the  common  food  should  be  shared 
according  to  strength  and  appetite,  and  they  cor- 
dially and  noisily  approved  it;  for,  if  such  a  law 
came  into  effect,  they  were  very  sure  to  get  a  large 
share  of  the  good  things. 

"  The  Owl  endorsed  the  Jay's  idea  with  all  his 
heart,  and  openly,  even  boastfully,  declared  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  ranked  in  bird  society 
by  family  crests,  for  he  claimed  two  of  them,  and 
fancied  that  he  should  climb  quite  high  in  the  new 
social  order. 

"  The  Flicker  snickered  at  the  Owl's  snobbish 
pretensions,  and  whispered  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  by  that  hopeful  Noble  of  the  double  crest 
that,  perhaps,  the  Owl  mistook  his  ears  for  crests, 
and,  on  the  same  grounds,  the  Bat  might  aspire  to 
equal  rank  with  the  Bird  of  Wisdom.  As  the  Bat 
is  a  poor  relation  of  ill-repute,  despised  and  dis- 
owned by  birds  and  beasts  alike,  the  Owl  felt 
grossly  insulted  at  the  Flicker's  flippant  joke, 
and  grew  so  snappish  and  sullen  that  he  retired  to 
his  hollow  tree  in  high  dudgeon. 

"  This  plan  of  having  a  King  and  a  titled 


56       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

ity  found  such  favor  with  all  birds  of  notable  crests 
and  strong  claws  that  they  flew  about  everywhere 
persuading  all  other  birds  to  adopt  it,  until  at  last 
it  was  talked  and  sung  into  general  approval. 

"  Then  came  the  day,  previously  agreed  upon, 
when  an  uncountable  number  of  all  kinds  of  birds 
met  on  an  open  plain  to  choose  their  King  and 
Nobles.  By  common  consent  it  was  arranged  so 
that  those  who  sought  to  be  King  should  present 
their  own  claims  before  the  great  feathered  assem- 
bly, and  that  afterward  the  King  chosen  should 
appoint  his  Nobles  with  the  approval  of  all  other 
birds. 

"  First,  outspoke  a  splendid  Crane,  almost  as  tall 
as  a  man,  claiming  that,  as  he  stood  higher  in  pub- 
lic esteem  than  any  other  bird  present,  he  should 
be  chosen  King  without  a  word  of  useless  debate 
on  the  question. 

"  Then  a  mighty  Eagle,  of  hoary  head  and 
haughty  mien,  screamed  loud  with  mirthless 
laughter,  more  insulting  than  the  most  cutting 
speech,  and  went  on  to  ridicule  the  claims  of  the 
Crane  to  royalty.  Shaking  his  shoulders  and  ruf- 


The  Crowning  of  the  Kingbird  57 

fling  his  feathers,  he  angrily  declared  that  no  such 
spindle-shanked  old  spear-head  as  the  Crane  could 
make  a  fit  King  of  birds ;  he  might  be  King  of  the 
Frog-stickers  of  the  marshes;  but  he  should  never 
be  a  monarch  of  the  birds  who  dwell  in  the  sky 
and  soar  above  the  storm-clouds  toward  the  sun. 

"  The  Crane  wrathfully  trumpeted  back  that 
when  the  birds  of  the  fields,  forests,  plains  and 
marshes  desired  for  their  King  a  short-necked, 
bandy-legged,  crooked-beak  old  cousin  of  Vul- 
tures and  eater  of  carrion,  such  as  the  Eagle,  they 
would  be  slow  to  let  him  know ;  but  he  might  wait 
till  the  sun  stopped  rising  before  they  did. 

"  Every  double-crested  Owl  there,  hissed  and 
hooted  at  the  Crane's  hot  speech  against  their 
great  kinsman  of  the  Day;  and  all  of  the  Hawks 
and  Falcons  fiercely  screamed  at  this  fiery  affront 
to  the  chief  of  their  kind,  who  was  their  choice  for 
King. 

"  At  the  menace  of  sudden  war  resulting  from 
the  wrathy  quarrel  of  these  two  rivals  for  the 
crown  of  the  bird  kingdom,  the  Owls  who  had 
hooted  the  loudest  hurried  the  fastest  to  the  depths 


58       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

of  the  nearest  forest,  and  all  of  the  weaker  birds 
flew  in  great  alarm  to  the  closest  cover. 

"  The  tall  Crane,  who  was  general  of  all  the 
combined  Heron  army,  loudly  trumpeted  his  com- 
mands to  marshal  his  host  in  line  of  battle.  This 
was  done  with  the  skill  and  quickness  of  veteran 
soldiers.  On  the  level  plain  a  long  double-rank 
was  formed,  composed  of  Cranes,  lighter  Herons, 
Storks  and  Bitterns  in  companies  of  each  kind. 
The  birds  of  these  double-ranks  stood  back  to  back. 
Thus  along  the  front  and  rear  of  the  entire  battle- 
line  was  a  formidable  hedge  of  spear-bills  point- 
ing with  a  front  either  way  in  defense  against  a 
charging  foe. 

"  While  this  swift  formation  of  the  Crane  army 
on  the  ground  was  being  effected  the  Eagle  was 
screaming  out  his  orders  arraying  an  attacking 
host  high  above  the  Heron  army.  Squadrons  of 
Hawks,  and,  in  fact,  all  of  the  numerous  Falcon 
kind  were  soon  wheeling  and  poising  in  the  air 
awaiting  but  the  word  of  command  to  charge  the 
lines  below. 

"  That  command  soon  came  in  a  war-cry  from 


The  Crowning  of  the  Kingbird  59 

the  Eagle,  which  was  heard  to  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  plain.  Fiercely  the  Falcon  army  swooped 
down  upon  the  foe  with  a  swish  of  wings  that 
sounded  like  the  keen  hiss  of  a  thousand  sabres 
cutting  through  the  air  with  one  murderous  stroke. 

"  Bravely  the  double  line  of  bristling  spears  be- 
low received  and  defeated  that  furious  assault.  In 
many  places  the  battle  line  of  the  Heron  army  was 
broken  by  that  first  charge.  But  in  all  such  open- 
ings fluttered  a  dying  Falcon  pierced  through  and 
through  by  a  Heron  spear,  and  still  struggled  a 
spearsman,  or  rather  spearsbird,  wounded  to  the 
death  by  the  beak  and  talons  of  his  enemy. 

"  That  terrible  attack  was  splendidly  beaten ; 
and,  when  the  repulsed  Falcon  squadrons  mounted 
in  the  air  to  gather  for  a  second  charge,  the  Heron 
legions  quickly  closed  up  the  gaps  in  their  line  to 
meet  it  as  gallantly  as  they  had  met  the  first. 

"  The  savage  attacks  and  brave  repulses  were  re- 
peated until  the  battleground  was  strewn  with  the 
bodies  of  impaled  Falcons  and  torn  Herons  locked 
together  in  death  by  beak,  talon  and  spear-bill. 

"  At  last,  fearing  final  defeat  for  the  greatly  re- 


60       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

duced  Falcon  forces,  the  commanding  Eagle  deter- 
mined to  lead  them  himself  in  one  more  desperate 
assault.  Putting  himself  at  their  head,  high  up  in 
the  sky  he  flew  with  his  squadrons,  until  they 
nearly  reached  the  fleecy  white  clouds  floating  over 
the  plain.  Then  down  they  swooped,  swift  as  fall- 
ing stars.  The  Eagle  in  advance  aimed  at  the  tall 
Crane  general,  who  held  his  long  gory  bill  firmly 
pointed  upward  to  receive  his  most  dangerous 
enemy.  The  Eagle  suddenly  swerved  at  the  end 
of  his  rushing  downward  swoop,  with  a  quick 
stroke  of  his  strong  right  pinion  struck  the  Crane's 
waiting  spear  aside,  and  beheaded  that  long-necked 
commander  with  one  cruel  cut  of  his  scimitar-beak. 
"  Beholding  their  valiant  leader  fall,  the  Crane 
buglers  trumpeted  a  general  retreat.  The  sur- 
vivors of  their  legions  rose  high  in  the  air,  and, 
taking  their  flight  northward,  were  soon  lost  to 
view.  The  lesser  Herons,  Storks  and  Bitterns 
fled  to  the  reedy  wastes  of  the  marshes  and  the 
dark  gloom  of  the  swamps,  where  the  victorious 
Falcons  were  then  too  weary  to  follow  them  with 
fatal  pursuit. 


The  Crowning  of  the  Kingbird  61 

"  The  Eagle  was  then  duly  proclaimed  King  of 
Birds,  and  he  promptly  made  his  Falcon  cousins 
his  favorite  courtiers  and  the  only  Knights  and 
Nobles  of  his  Kingdom.  Even  his  double-crested 
near-relations,  the  Owls,  were  denied  their  strong 
claims  to  nobility,  and  were  scornfully  driven  from 
court  to  the  forest  to  hide  in  dark  hollows  and 
caves  by  day.  There  at  night,  when  the  King  and 
his  Nobles  were  asleep,  they  wailed  and  mourned 
from  dark  to  dawn  over  such  unjust  treatment. 

"  Then  the  law  of  the  bird-world  became  the 
rule  of  strongest  beak  and  longest  talon;  and 
hunger,  fear  and  sorrow  took  the  place  of  plenty, 
peace  and  happiness  among  the  most  of  bird-kind. 

"  In  the  course  of  time  the  Eagle  became  such 
a  cruel  tyrant  that  his  reign  could  hardly  be  en- 
dured. There  were  many  timid  secret  talks  in  the 
thickets  and  woods  as  to  how  to  dethrone  and  get 
rid  of  him.  But  they  amounted  to  nothing;  and 
the  end  of  his  odious  rule  was  brought  about  in  a 
way  that  astonished  the  whole  of  the  bird-world. 

"  A  Flycatcher,  or  Bee-Bird,  smaller  than  a 
Thrush,  who  wore  a  black  coat  and  crest  and  white 


62       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

breast-feathers,  devised  a  plan  of  his  own  to  restore 
the  lost  freedom  of  bird-kind.  Very  wisely  he  said 
nothing  to  any  other  bird  about  what  he  proposed 
to  do  until  he  had  done  it 

"  That  Flycatcher,  as  if  moved  by  mere  curios- 
ity to  get  a  close  view  of  Royalty,  quietly  flew  to 
Court  one  day.  He  correctly  reasoned  that,  as  he 
was  such  a  small  bird,  he  would  be  ignored  there 
by  the  attendant  great  Nobles.  When  he  entered 
the  Court  King  Eagle  was  closely  surrounded  by 
his  fulsome  Falcon  Courtiers.  The  valiant  little 
visitor  managed  to  edge  his  way  through  that 
throng  until  he  got  very  near  the  throne.  Then, 
sounding  a  shrill  battle-cry,  he  flew  fiercely  at  the 
royal  head  and  attacked  it  vigorously  with  his 
sharp,  dirk-like  beak. 

"  The  startled  and  astonished  Eagle  screamed 
with  fear  and  pain  at  that  sudden  bold  assault ;  and 
at  that  cry  of  fright,  never  before  heard  from  his 
royal  beak,  the  whole  Court  was  filled  with  help- 
less panic.  King  Eagle  sprang  up  from  his  throne 
to  free  himself  from  his  daring  little  assailant  and 
slay  him  on  the  spot. 


The  Crowning  of  the  Kingbird  63 

"  The  Flycatcher,  swift  to  elude  the  strokes  of 
those  great,  strong  wings,  struck  and  stabbed  the 
royal  head  again  and  again.  Then  he  darted  down 
between  the  Monarch's  shoulders  and  clung  to  his 
broad  back,  safe  from  cruel  beak,  crooked  talon 
and  beating  wing;  and  there  he  began  to  busily 
dig  his  little  dirk  down  trying  to  reach  and  pierce 
the  tyrant's  hard  heart. 

"  With  his  hoary  head  reddened  by  his  own 
gore,  his  blazing  eyes  almost  blinded  by  pain  and 
blood,  and  those  keen  dagger-thrusts  threatening 
to  reach  his  vitals  beneath  his  tortured  back,  the 
King  of  Birds  completely  lost  all  of  his  courage. 
Like  a  frightened  Crow,  with  wings  flapping 
fast  and  clumsily,  he  fled  straight  for  the  cliffs  and 
crags  of  the  far  mountains.  There,  remote  from 
the  fields  and  forests  where  he  had  ruled  over  bird- 
kind,  he  remains  to  this  day  a  King  in  name,  but  a 
sovereign  only  of  the  mountain  solitudes. 

"When  the  little  crested  victor  returned  from 
the  scene  of  his  glorious  triumph  thousands  of 
happy  birds  welcomed  him  home  with  open  wings. 
They  hailed  him  as  the  Deliverer  of  Birdkind,  and 


64       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

joyfully  sang  his  praises.  Beneath  his  black  crest 
they  placed  a  bright  golden  crown,  which  is  still 
worn  by  his  descendants  of  the  male  line ;  and  they 
chose  him,  amid  the  greatest  rejoicings,  their 
Kingbird. 

"  All  of  the  Falcons,  from  the  Eagle  down  to 
the  end  of  the  list,  still  acknowledge  his  royal  rule ; 
and  wherever  he  lifts  his  black  crest,  displays  his 
golden  crown  and  sounds  his  shrill  war-clarion  in 
warning  against  their  possible  rapacity,  they  flee 
afar. 

"  And  now,  when  the  changing  seasons  bring 
around  in  the  middle  of  March  the  date  of  that 
famous  battle  between  the  Falcons  and  the  Cranes, 
listening  people  of  the  far  South  may  hear  the 
Crane  legions  again  trumpeting  their  retreat. 
High  up  in  the  sky  the  far  bugles  blow,  from  al- 
most invisible  lines  which  might  be  but  the  ghosts 
of  that  gallant  Crane  army  of  the  olden  days. 
Further,  fainter  the  calls  float  down  until  the  last 
of  them  is  heard  no  more  on  that  blue  highway  to 
the  Northland." 

That  might  seem  a  strange  tale  for  a  mocking- 


The  Crowning  of  the  Kingbird 65 

bird  to  tell;  but  really  the  bird  never  told  it.  He 
merely  sang  the  Maid  of  Birdland  to  sleep.  And, 
sound  asleep,  she  dreamed  all  over  again  a  story 
told  her  and  her  brother  by  their  fanciful  friend, 
the  young  Doctor,  just  after  all  three  of  them 
had  been  listening  to  the  flight  of  the  trumpeting 
cranes  overhead  in  their  spring  migration  north- 
ward from  the  marshes  bordering  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico. 


VI 
Efjc  Emu  tlje  jjttoou  fftll 


HAVING  finished  supper  one  still  and  sul- 
try August  night,  the  Birdland  Boy  felt 
unusually  restless  and  at  a  loss  for  some- 
tiling  to  entertain  him  in  the  two  or  three  hours 
before  bedtime.     He  first  listlessly  sauntered  to 

the  reading-table  in  the  living-room.     But,  find- 
66 


The  Time  the  Moon  Fell 67 

ing  that  room  made  still  warmer  by  the  large 
lighted  lamp,  he  soon  wandered  thence  to  the  front 
porch,  where  the  family  had  not  yet  gathered  for 
their  usual  evening  assemblage.  No  breath  of 
breeze  was  there,  so  he  went  on  down  the  front 
steps  to  seek  some  relief  from  the  heat  on  one  of 
the  rustic  benches  of  the  lawn  before  the  mansion. 

Soon  after  reaching  that  more  pleasant  out-door 
resting-place  his  observant  eyes  caught  sight  of  a 
distant,  dimly  outlined  figure  approaching  up  the 
driveway  from  the  public  road  gates.  The  dull  red 
glow  of  a  lighted  pipe  closely  preceding  the  almost 
invisible  face  informed  him  better  than  anything 
else  that  it  was  old  Uncle  Jason  going  on  his  self- 
imposed  and  entirely  unnecessary  evening  rounds. 

Time  out  of  mind  that  venerable  black  guardian 
of  the  House  of  Birdland,  as  he  considered  himself 
to  be  as  much  as  any  faithful  and  worn-out  old 
watchdog  over  his  master's  home  and  belongings, 
had  taken  it  upon  himself  to  see  that  all  of  the 
gates  and  grounds  were  safe  for  the  night,  and 
secure  from  even  the  menace  of  intrusion  of  man, 
beast,  or  imaginary  evils  of  any  kind. 


68       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

The  slowly  moving  figure  came  nearer,  and 
brighter  glowed  the  inseparable  pipe.  When  it 
was  within  close  hailing  distance  the  boy  cried  his 
usual  happy  greeting. 

"Hello,  that  you,  Uncle  Jason?  —  Now  that 
you  have  all  of  the  gates  shut  and  everything  safe, 
come  here  to  this  bench  and  sit  down  with  me  and 
take  a  good  rest,  and  talk  with  me;  I'm  awfully 
lonesome;  it's  mighty  hot  in  the  house,  and  even 
warm  out  here.  I  just  wonder  where  the  wind  has 
gone  to-night." 

"  All  right,  Little  Mahster,  I'll  be  with  you  in 
a  minnit,"  replied  the  old  man,  "  but  des'  lemme 
take  a  peep  behine  dis  las'  bush  heah  to  see  ef  no 
wuffless  road-tramp,  or  robber  or  nuttin*  ain't 
dodgin*  away  out  of  my  sight  in  its  dark  shad- 
der." 

After  close  and  careful  examination,  "  no  rob- 
ber, no  wuffless  road-tramp,  or  nuttin',"  having 
been  found  behind  the  final  bush,  the  venerable 
searcher  straightened  himself  up.  Still  not  en- 
tirely assured  of  desirable  safety  to  his  par- 
ticular charges,  he  turned  slowly  and  completely 


The  Time  the  Moon  -Fell 69 

around,  taking  a  last  sweeping  glance  in  every 
direction,  as  if  his  dim  and  failing  human  vision 
were  as  keen  as  the  night-piercing  eyes  of  an  owl. 
Then  he  consented,  as  if  still  reluctant  to  relax  his 
vigilance  at  even  his  best-loved  young  friend's  in- 
viting bidding,  and  slowly  took  the  much  desired 
seat,  holding  between  his  knees  his  formidable 
night-club,  and  grasping  its  knotty  top  with  both 
of  his  equally  knotty  hands. 

"  Yas-sar-ree! "  he  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  he  felt 
comfortably  fixed.  "  It  sho'ly  is  good  an'  fine  an' 
hot;  an'  dis  is  des'  de  kind  o'  wedder  to  make  de 
cane  crap  grow  righteously  an'  put  de  sugar  in  de 
stalks." 

Almost  before  he  had  finished  speaking,  a  splen- 
did meteor  flashed  its  brilliant  way  far  across  the 
sky,  lighting  the  lawn  and  all  of  the  grounds  like 
a  prolonged  flash  of  lightning,  and  leaving  a  long 
trail  of  trembling  radiance  in  its  wake. 

"Oh,  wasn't  that  just  glorious!"  cried  the  de- 
lighted boy.  "  It  was  better  than  the  biggest  sky- 
rocket that  ever  was  fired! " 

The  old  man  was  more  joyful  over  the  boy's 


70       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

glee  than  pleased  at  the  splendor  of  the  display  in 
the  starry  sky. 

Before  the  glow  of  the  vanished  meteor  had  en- 
tirely faded  from  its  path,  another  almost  as  large 
and  bright  blazed  its  way  in  the  same  direction. 

The  passing  of  that  so  soon  after  the  other  was 
the  cause  of  the  breathless  excited  silence  of  both 
watchers  expecting  more  to  come.  They  were  re- 
warded by  the  sight  of  a  few  more  inferior  shoot- 
ing-stars flying  on  their  westward  way  across  the 
spangled  sky. 

Such  shows  of  heavenly  fireworks  may  be  more 
often  seen  in  clear  August  nights  than  unobserv- 
ant people  imagine.  When  that  which  the  Bird- 
land  Boy  and  Uncle  Jason  were  lucky  enough  to 
witness  was  finished,  or  appeared  to  be  for  that 
particular  night,  the  old  man  gravely  observed: 

"Dem  big  an'  little  shootin'- stars  always  puts 
me  in  mind  o*  dat  true  tale  my  mammy  use  to  tell 
me  about  de  time  all  de  stars  dat  ever  shined  fell 
out  o*  de  sky  one  night  an*  staid  fell  out  all  night. 
But  de  nex'  day  dey  must  ha'  got  back  somehow 
or  ernudder,  bekase  when  night  corned  aroun'  agin 


The  Time  the  Moon  Fell 71 

dar  dey  was  all  shinin'  keen  an'  bright  as  ever. 
But  she  tole  me  de  moon  never  fell  a  single  inch." 

Through  family  tales,  long  handed  down,  the 
Birdland  Boy  had  often  heard  of  the  great  mete- 
oric shower  or  "  falling  of  the  stars,"  which  had 
happened  about  seventy  years  before;  but  he  was 
wise  enough  not  to  dispute  Uncle  Jason's  version 
of  that  event  learned  from  the  old  man's  long-de- 
parted mammy,  that  all  the  stars  in  the  sky  fell 
on  that  noted  occasion  and  that  they  "  staid  fell " 
all  night.  The  boy  knew  that  the  silent  acceptance 
of  that  great  yarn  was  almost  certain  to  lead  to 
another  much  more  marvelous  and  interesting. 

He  was  not  disappointed;  for,  after  a  sufficient 
pause  to  let  him  satisfactorily  swallow  and  digest 
that  immense  Black  Mammy  story,  Uncle  Jason 
went  on: 

"  Well,  des'  like  my  ole  mammy  say,  de  moon 
didn'  fall,  too,  dot  time  when  all  de  stars  felled; 
but  one  time  it  did  fall.  Leas'while  dats'  what  all 
de  wile  varmints  an'  beases  in  de  woods,  big  an' 
little,  allowed;  an'  maybe  dey  was  right.  I  ain't 
wise  enough  to  say  dey  was  all  wrong,  bekase 


72      Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

many  o'  de  wile  varmints  in  de  woods  ain't  nigh 
as  big  fools  as  some  menfolks  in  de  open  am." 

"  But  when  and  how  did  the  moon  fall,  Uncle 
Jason? "  impatiently  asked  the  boy,  objecting  to 
the  tale's  being  delayed  any  longer  by  any  sage 
and  prosy  comparisons  between  the  wits  of  beasts 
and  men. 

"  Well,  it  were  'bout  dis  a  way,  ef  I  reckomem- 
bers  right: 

"  One  day,  way  back  yander  an'  gone  a  long 
time  ago,  some  kind  of  a  big  fool  of  a  man,  who 
didn'  know  how  to  take  good  keer  of  his  money, 
was  gwine  along  thew  de  middle  of  de  woods  to 
somewhar  ernudder.  Out  of  a  rip  in  his  pu'ss'  or 
a  hole  in  his  pocket  he  drapped  a  gret  big,  bran'- 
new,  bright-shinin'  silver  dollar  on  de  groun'  in  de 
midst  of  a  briar-patch.  He  went  on  an*  lef '  it  dar 
onbeknown  to  hisse'f  tell  he  got  out  o'  de  woods  an* 
reached  whar  he  were  gwine.  Maybe  he  mo'ned 
for  it  when  he  missed  it  and  wondered  whar  it  was 
gone.  But  he  couldn'  reckomember  'zackly  whar 
he  los'  it.  But  dat's  nudder  here  nor  nudder  dar; 
so  he  hatter  let  it  go  at  dat  an*  do  better  nex'  time. 


The  Time  the  Moon  Fell 73 

"  Mon,  a  dollar  in  de  house  or  in  de  town  looks 
big  enough!  But  a  dollar  layin'  on  de  groun'  out 
in  de  middle  o'  de  wide  woods  looks  bigger'n  de 
full  moon!  An'  dem  times  dollars  was  more'n  ten 
times  as  big  as  dey  is  now. 

"  Well,  dat  happen  in  de  dark  o'  de  moon.  An' 
when  de  varmints  what  wanders  all  night  in  de 
woods,  like  dey  all  does  dese  times,  come  across  dat 
money  dey  didn'  know  what  in  de  worl'  to  make 
of  it  —  " 

"  But,  Uncle  Jason,  how  could  they  see  it  at 
night  in  the  dark  of  the  moon?"  rashly  inter- 
rupted the  listening  boy. 

"  Little  Mahster,  ef  you  knows  dis  tale  better'n 
I  does  you  better  go  on  an'  tell  it  to  me  instid  o' 
me  tellin'  it  to  you,"  replied  the  old  man  in  pre- 
tended anger.  Then,  after  a  pause  of  sufficiently 
disappointing  length  for  proper  punishment,  (he 
went  on: 

"Wid  all  I  done  tole  you  'bout  de  ways  o'  de 
wile  varmints  you  oughter  ha'  1'arnt  by  dis  time 
dat  none  of  'um,  cl'ar  night  nor  dark  night,  needs 
any  candlelight  to  go  to  bed  by,  any  firelight  to 


74       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

warm  deir  feetses,  nor  any  lantum-light  to  show 
de  way  for  deir  night-ramblin'  in  de  woods  or  in 
de  open.  Look  inside  yo'  pony's  two  befo'  laigs 
an'  you'll  find  dat  even  a  tame  horse  has  two  bone 
eyes  des  above  his  fetlock  j'ints  to  see  his  way  in 
de  darkes'  o'  nights.  An'  all  de  varmints  I  knows 
totes  dark-lantums  inside  deir  own  eyes  to  light 
deir  way  thew  de  blackes'  o'  darkness.  De  mean 
fire-torch  hunters  knows  dat  well,  an'  dey  fools  de 
po'  critters  into  showin'  um  deir  own  night- 
lights. 

"  Well,  when  a  wile  varmint  sees  sumpen'  in  de 
woods  he  ain't  never  seed  befo',  it  'larums  him 
mos'  to  deaf  for  a  time  tell  he  kin  1'arn  what  it  is 
an'  git  use'  to  it.  Befo'  dat  no  wile  varmint  had 
ever  seed  any  money  in  de  woods;  an'  dey's  all  a 
lot  better  off  widout  it,  like  mens  mought  ha'  been 
had  dey  only  knowed  all  o'  de  meanness  o'  gittin' 
it  an*  de  mis'ry  o'  doin*  widout  it. 

"  Fust  an'  foremos',  Mr.  Buck-Deer  comes  sud- 
den across  dat  big  bright  shinin'  dollar  layin'  on  de 
groun*  in  de  briar-patch,  right  in  de  middle  o'  de 
wide  woods.  He  hits  de  groun*  hard  once  wid  his 


The  Time  the  Moon  Fell 75 

right  befo'  foot;  he  snorts  '  What  datl '  he  boun's 
higher'n  a  high-bush  blackberry,  an'  he  f a'rly  flews 
f'om  darl 

"  Next,  here  come  Mr.  Wilecat,  wid  his  haid 
hangin'  low  an'  his  yaller  eyes  half  shet;  an'  he 
mos'  steps  on  dat  big  bright  dollar  befo'  he  sees  it. 
Den  zip !  —  bounce!  —  mooroo-ow!  —  an'  good-by, 
Mr.  Wilecat! 

"  Den,  here  come  ole  Mr.  Possum,  fat  enouf  for 
de  pot  an'  too  lazy  to  git  out  o'  his  own  way,  am- 
blin'  home  slow  an'  sleepy.  When  he  runs  right 
up  ag'inst  dat  shinin'  money  he  des'  falls  down  in 
a  fit,  an*  lays  dar  a  little  time  'tendin'  like  he's  kilt 
dead  an'  all  laid  out  for  de  buryin'.  Den  he  des' 
cracks  one  eye  open  de  leas'  little  bit,  an',  seem' 
dat  bright  thing  ain't  comin'  right  at  him,  he 
crawls  away  thew  de  high-bush  an'  de  low-bresh 
tell  he  gits  whar  he  can  do  his  bes'  amblin'  away 
f'om  dar! 

"  Here  come  Mr.  Fox,  trottin'  along  on  three 
feetses,  wid  his  mouf  half  open  an'  sort  o'  smilin', 
an'  his  tricky  eyes  lookin'  seven  ways  for  Sunday. 
He  seed  dat  dollar  f'om  a  safe  distance.  Bein' 


76       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

sort  a'  use'  to  seein'  new  things  f 'om  his  travellin' 
so  much,  but  always  mistrustful  o'  traps,  it  didn' 
skeer  him  so  much ;  so  he  des'  skirted  de  place  an' 
trotted  on  about  his  'ticular  business. 

"  Soon,  Mr.  Coon,  he  corned  a  rackin'  along 
keerless-like ;  an'  when  he  runs  across  dat  roun' 
shinin'  thing  he  opens  his  eyes  so  wide  he  draps  off 
de  speckticles  he  always  w'ars,  an'  he  racks  away 
f  om  dar  like  trouble  was  runnin'  right  close  behine 
him  to  cotch  him  befo'  he  could  reach  his  holler. 

"  But,  Mon,  you  should  ha*  seed  de  antics  cut 
up  by  smart  ole  Mr.  Rabbit  when  lie  reach  de  dan- 
ger-spot. Mr.  Rabbit  come  up  lookin'  biggoty, 
an'  a  lippety,  loppeytin',  wid  his  eyes  sot  sidewise 
an'  backward,  always  lookin'  behine  him  for  some- 
body to  run  away  f'om,  an'  he  butts  right  into  dat 
glissenin'  money!  When  he  seed  it  right  under- 
beneaf  his  nose  he  des'  tumbles  two  back  summer- 
sets, squeals  an'  '  skewrees '  his  loudes',  an'  tears 
bofe  his  hindfeetses  breakin'  away  thew  de  briars 
an'  de  bresh! 

"  Same  wid  Mr.  Mink  an'  Mr.  Muskrat,  an' 
every  udder  critter  small  an'  lurge  in  de  woods. 


"  '  HE  DBS'  TUMBLES  TWO   BACK   SUMMERSETS,  SQUEALS   AN'   "  SKEW- 
REES  "    HIS    LOUDES'.'  " 


The  Time  the  Moon  Fell 77 

Dey  all  runned  away  f 'om  dat  roun'  shinin'  money 
wusser'n  menfolks  runs  alter  it! 

"  Befo'  nex'  night  come,  in  de  ginnal  incitement 
about  dat  new  an'  mistrus'ful  wonder  in  de  woods, 
all  de  varmints  whajt  had  seed  it  went  to  wise  ole 
Jedge  B'ar  an'  axed  him  to  go  dar  wid  'urn  at  de 
fus'  fall  o'  dark  an'  see  if  Tie  could  make  out  what 
it  was. 

"So,  wid  de  sinkin'  o'  de  evenin'-star,  dar  dey 
all  was  ranged  aroun'  dat  shinin'  dollar  in  de  briar- 
patch,  wid  ole  Jedge  B'ar  in  de  middle  o'  de  ring, 
all  af  eared  to  go  nigher  to  it  dan  a  good  long  buck- 
jump. 

"  Dey  all  looked  wonderin'  at  de  money,  an'  dey 
all  looked  questionin'  at  wise  Jedge  B'ar,  an' 
waited  silent  to  lissen  to  what  he  hatter  say  atter 
he  had  done  thunk  it  out  well. 

"Jedge  B'ar  he  put  on  his  mos'  sollum  cote- 
house  look,  an*  he  'sidered  de  question  de  proper 
good  long  time.  Den  says  he,  atter  a  openin' 
'Woof:' 

"  *  Brer  Varmints  all,  look  up  in  de  sky  an'  see 
if  any  o'  you  kin  see  whar's  de  Moon  to-night? ' 


78       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  Dey  all  looks  up;  an'  tricky  Mr.  Fox  he 
s'claims  sort  o'  snickerin'-like : 

'  *  De  Moon  ain't  dar,  Jedge ;    but  it  ain't  riz 

yit.' 

"  Jedge  B'ar,  he  frowns  at  impident  Mr.  Fox, 
an'  he  'spon's  deep  down  in  his  f  roat : 

"  *  It  ain't  riz  yit,  Brer  Varmints  all,  bekase  it's 
done  fell  out  o'  de  sky,  like  all  de  stars  done  once 
when  I  was  young.  Dar's  de  Moon  layin'  right 
befo'  us  on  de  groun'.  Brer  Varmints  all,  don't 
none  of  you  go  nigh  it;  don't  none  of  you  dare 
'sturb  it ;  an',  maybe,  in  about  f o'teen  nights  it  will 
clamb  back  into  de  sky  an'  come  out  new  an'  des' 
as  bright  ag'in  as  it  is  layin'  dar.  Ef  it  don't  we 
all  mought  des'  as  well  be  gittin'  ready  for  de  een' 
o'  de  woods  an'  de  een'  o'  de  worl'.  So  le's  us  all 
go  away  about  our  business,  an'  keep  away,  an' 
leave  de  Moon  whar  it's  fell,  an'  wait  for  what's 
gwine  to  happen.' 

"  Den  when  de  meetin'  o'  de  varmints  broke  up, 
an'  dey  all  went  on  home,  aldough  de  sky  was  mos' 
kivered  wid  clouds  befo',  de  clouds  kep'  a  gittin' 
bigger  an'  bigger  an'  blacker  an'  blacker,  ontell, 


The  Time  the  Moon  Fell 79 

bimeby,  de  forked  lightnin'  blazed  an'  a  crack  o' 
thunder  bu'st  loose  what  shuk  de  whole  worl'.  De 
groun'  trimbled  an'  de  woods  fa'rly  rumbled  wid 
it.  Down  corned  a  few  rain  draps,  big  as  yo'  chiny 
marbles,  Mon!  An'  it  rained  and  it  rained  an'  it 
rained;  an'  it  blowed  an'  it  blowed  till  de  trees  all 
shouted;  an9  it  thundered  till  it  cracked  de  sky 
wide  open  an'  all  de  water  it  ever  hilt  come  thew. 

"  Mon,  it  kep'  on  dat  a  way  for  two  solid  weeks, 
wid  de  Moon  drapped  out  o'  de  dark  sky;  an*  no 
tellin'  ef  de  Sun  ain't  drapped  out  too  in  all  o'  dem 
fo'teen  days.  It  look'  like  de  beginnin'  of  anudder 
forty-day  No'h's-ark  flood.  All  dat  time  all  de 
varmints  was  mos'  skeered  to  deaf  at  what  had 
come  on  de  worl'  f'om  de  fallin'  o'  de  Moon;  an* 
even  Mr.  Fox  beginned  to  git  sort  o'  fidgety  an'  to 
wonder  ef  ole  Jedge  B'ar  wasn'  quite  sich  a  big  ole 
fool  as  he  thunk  he  were. 

"  Den,  one  day.  'bout  de  time  dat  de  spring  slips 
into  summer,  a  po'  colored  boy,  about  fo'teen  yeah 
or  so  ole,  passed  dat  way  whilst  he  was  out  pickin' 
blackberries  to  sell  for  a  little  pocket-money. 

"  De  boy  I's  tell  you  about  had  never  owned 


80       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

more'n  a  little  silver  dime  at  one  time  in  his  life. 
When  he  foun'  dat  big,  bright,  shinin',  braii'-new 
•silver  dollar,  he  open'  his  eyes  bigger'n  Mr.  Coon's 
when  he  drapped  off  his  specktickles ;  he  jumped 
higher'n  Mr.  Buck-Deer  when  he  snorted  '  What 
dat  I '  he  pounced  down  on  it  quicker'n  Mr.  Wile- 
cat  on  a  wood-rabbit;  he  forgot  his  berry-pail,  he 
tied  dat  dollar  tight  up  in  his  pocket  wid  a  piece 
er  gallus-twine,  an',  I  tell  you,  Mon,  he  fa'rly 
busted  for  home. 

"  It  were  ginger-cakes,  candy,  all  kind  o'  cookies 
an'  things;  Christmas,  New  Yeah,  an'  de  Fofe  o' 
July  for  him  almos'  a  whole  week! 

"  Dat  sho'ly  was  a  happy  day  for  dat  boy!  An' 
de  same  night  was  a  moughty  happy  night  for  all 
de  wile  varmints  in  de  woods,  bekase  dey  foun'  dat 
de  new  Moon  had  clambed  back  into  de  sky  an' 
was  showin'  its  shinin'  aidge  in  de  Wes'  ag'in, 
swingin'  under  de  white  evenin'-star,  soon  atter  de 
Sun  went  down." 

"I  wonder  who  that  lucky  boy  was?"  com- 
mented with  interest  the  young  listener  at  the  end 
of  this  fantastic  tale. 


The  Time  the  Moon  Fell 81 

The  old  black  man,  after  he  had  lighted  and 
puffed  his  pipe  of  departure  into  a  satisfactory 
glow,  chuckled  lightly  as  he  replied: 

"  Ef  I  don't  disremember,  I  b'leeves  his  name 
were  Jason.  Good  night,  Little  Mahster;  sleep 
tight  an'  wake  up  like  a  young  rooster  soon  in  de 
mawnin' ! " 


VII 

JHr,  astir 


NEAR  the  end  of  the  two  o'clock  dinner, 
one  day,  the  Birdland  Boy  was  directed 
by  his  father  to  go  out  when  the  meal 
was  finished  and  look  up  old  Jason  and  tell  him 
to  ride  out  into  the  woods  in  search  of  some  young 
oxen  that  had  been  astray  in  the  forest  for  more 
than  a  month.     Then  and  there  the  boy  decided 
that  two  hunters  should  look  for  those  stray  steers 
instead  of  one,  as  hunting  wild  cattle  in  the  deep 

82 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Spotted  Coat      83 

woods  struck  him  as  being  probably  the  finest  of 
sports.  Therefore,  the  first  to  leave  the  dinner- 
table,  he  darted  into  the  hall,  snatched  up  his  cap 
and  whip  and  sped  out  of  the  house  on  his  joyous 
errand. 

Jason  was  quickly  found  at  the  plantation  stable 
hitching  his  mule  up  to  a  light  cart  used  in  his  gen- 
eral work.  When  the  message  mentioned  was  de- 
livered he  led  his  mule  over  to  the  harness-room 
and  saddled  him  up  instead,  while  the  boy  ran  to 
the  yard-stable  for  his  bronco,  or  Mexican  pony. 

When  the  Birdland  Boy  rode  back  the  old  man 
was  trying  to  mount  his  mule;  but  Old  Abe  pre- 
ferred drawing  a  cart  to  carrying  a  rider,  and  he 
showed  his  objections  to  being  ridden  in  an  em- 
phatic manner  with  his  teeth  and  his  heels.  But, 
after  the  exchange  of  many  unmeaning  menaces 
of  violence  between  beast  and  man,  the  latter  man- 
aged to  plant  himself  firmly  in  the  saddle,  and  the 
two  hunters  of  the  half -wild  cattle  took  their  way 
to  the  woods.  As  they  turned  down  the  forest 
road  several  of  the  old  woodsman's  curs  came  fol- 
lowing them  some  distance  behind  in  a  sneaking 


84       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

uncertain  string.  Seeing  them  their  angered 
owner  headed  his  mule  around,  raised  his  whip, 
and  chased  them  back  beyond  the  stable,  threaten- 
ing and  scolding  them  in  such  words  as : 

"  Whar  you  gwine,  dawgs?  Ain't  I  tole  you  to 
stay  home?  You  want  to  go  wid  us  in  de  woods 
an'  run  dem  young  steers  clean  wild  now  it's  time 
to  be  bringin'  'urn  home  to  break  to  yoke?  Go 
home,  dawgs! " 

When  the  disappointed  curs  had  folded  their 
tails  and  fled  from  the  wrath  behind  them,  the 
mule  was  hauled  around  to  the  right  direction 
after  a  few  stubborn  tacks  stableward. 

Reaching  the  woods  the  riders  covered  several 
miles  of  its  crooked  roadisi  and  by-paths  without 
finding  any  signs  of  the  missing  cattle  except 
tracks,  which  the  black  woodsman  said  were  more 
than  a  week  old.  Then,  about  an  hour  before  sun- 
set, in  rounding  a  sharp  turn  in  one  of  the  by- 
roads, they  suddenly  came  up  on  three  of  the 
young  steers  standing  together,  with  ears  stretched 
forward  and  tails  lifted,  as  if  they  scented  danger 
and  were  ready  to  run. 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Spotted  Coat       85 

At  the  sight  of  human  forms  the  animals 
wheeled  in  their  tracks  and  dashed  away  in  wild 
terror  with  the  speed  of  fleeing  buffaloes.  They 
were  joined  by  unseen  others,  and  the  herd 
of  them  in  a  common  panic  rushed  through 
the  woods  with  the  crash  and  roar  of  a  whirl- 
wind. 

"Dar  dey  goes  clean  crazy!"  exclaimed  Old 
Jason.  "  Smashin'  an'  crashin'  thew  de  thick 
woods  like  dey'd  never  seed  a  man  or  boy  bef  o'  now 
in  all  deir  lives,  when  dey  was  born  in  de  cowpen 
an'  bred  in  de  pastur',  an'  now  dey  runs  away  from 
folkses  wiler'n  a  deer  an'  swif 'er'n  a  rabbit  born  an' 
bred  in  de  woods." 

After  listening  to  the  fleeing  cattle  until  they 
were  out  of  hearing,  and  silently  meditating  a 
minute  or  so,  he  went  on. 

"  De  mos'  we  kin  do  now  is  to  ride  back  home 
an*  tell  yo'  Paw  we's  foun'  dem  'stracted  steers; 
I  'spects  dat's  all  he  means  us  to  do,  bekase  he 
knows  well  enough  me  an'  you  couldn'  drive  'urn 
home  widout  mo'  help;  but  before  we  starts  back 
let's  git  down  an'  rest  a  spell;  I's  moughty  tired 


86       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

o'  dat  joltin'  mule-trot,  let  alone  tryin'  to  f oiler 
dem  fool  oxens." 

They  dismounted  and  hitched  the  mule  and 
pony;  but,  before  sitting  down  on  a  decaying  log 
that  lay  at  the  roadside,  they  stopped  to  look  at 
numerous  animal  tracks  made  after  a  recent  rain 
in  the  soil  of  this  remote  road.  With  special  in- 
terest the  old  man  noted  and  followed  the  pointed 
pads  of  a  large  wood-rabbit,  and  told  the  boy  the 
little  story  thus  printed  for  his  woodland  reading. 

"  Here  he  hopped  out  of  de  bushes  in  de  road 
las'  night.  Here  he  stopped  to  look  an'  lissen  ef 
de  road's  clear  an'  things  was  all  right.  Here, 
atter  satisfyin'  hisse'f,  he  hopped  out  into  de  mid- 
dle o'  de  road,  an'  atter  lookin'  ag'in  an'  seein'  no- 
body was  nigh,  he  squattedi  an'  hit  de  groun'  hard 
wid  bofe  his  behinelegs  at  once:  whop!  —  whop  I 
—  whop !  an'  hollered :  *  Skewree !  —  skewree !  — 
skewree!  I's  de  boss  buck-rabbit  in  dese  woods,  an' 
I  des'  dares  anybody  to  come  out  here  a  spell  an' 
'spute  it  wid  me ! '  Here  he  waited  awhile,  an', 
when  nobody  come,  he  lippety-lopped  on  down  de 
road  wid  his  toeses  so  close  togedder  his  tracks 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Spotted  Coat       87 

makes  one  p'inted  print.  Here  he  stops  an'  whops 
de  groun'  hard  an'  hollers  his  dare  ag'in,  huntin' 
for  trouble.  An'  des'  look  here,  Mon,  he  finds  it 
moughty  soon!  Look  at  dese  two  tracks,  big  as  de 
pa'm  o'  yo'  han',  wid  claws  cuttin'  deep  in  de  dirt, 
across  Mr.  Rabbit's.  Dar  ole  Mr.  Wilecat  lepped 
f 'om  behine  dat  lawg  an'  hit  down  at  Mr.  Rabbit 
wid  bofe  his  forefeets.  Here,  look  at  Mr.  Rabbit's 
behinepaws  an'  see  de  toeses  spread  wide  apart  an' 
dug  deep,  too.  Dat  means  Mr.  Rabbit  hearn  Mr. 
Wilecat  as  he  made  his  spring,  an'  lepped  in  time 
to  git  f'om  under  dat  live  deadfall.  Here  goes 
Mr.  Rabbit's  tracks  a  whirlin'  into  de  bresh  an' 
briars;  an'  here's  anudder  long,  long  leap  o'  Mr. 
Wilecat  mis  sin'  him  moughty  close.  Here,  Mr. 
Wilecat  stops,  shets  up  his  claws  an*  studies 
awhile  how  he  come  to  miss  sich  a  easy  kill;  an', 
maybe,  hopin'  for  better  luck  nex'  time,  he  walks 
on  down  de  road  listenin'  for  de  braggin'  night- 
talk  o'  some  udder  fool  o'  de  woods." 

"  I'm  glad  that  rabbit  got  away! "  exclaimed 
the  Birdland  Boy,  when  this  tale  of  the  tracks  was 
done. 


88       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  But  dey  warn't  always  dat  lucky,"  replied  the 
old  woodsman,  looking  grave  and  shaking  his 
grey  head.  Then  he  went  on:  "I  ain't  never  tole 
you  dat  tale  about  how  Mr.  Wilecat  tried  to  cook 
rabbits  by  fox-fire  an'  got  only  his  coat  spotted  for 
his  trouble,  has  I?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  about  dat, 
as  fur  as  I  knows,  on  de  way  home.  It's  time  to 
start  now,  de  Sun's  gwine  down,  an'  de  fambly 
mought  be  afeared  we's  done  got  los'  in  de  woods, 
as  it  is." 

When  they  had  remounted  and  taken  the 
homeward  way,  old  Jason  began  his  story,  say- 
ing: 

"  You  reckomembers  dat  chip  o'  rotten  wood  I 
handed  you  one  day  up  at  de  house,  which  you 
started  to  th'ow  away,  an'  said  I  was  tryin'  to  play 
a  prank  on  you;  but  I  tole  you  to  leave  it  on  yo' 
bureau  till  you  blowed  out  yo'  candle  to  go  to  bed 
dat  night?  Well,  when  you  done  it,  de  chip  shined 
an*  flickered  an'  flamed  widout  gittin'  hot:  dat's 
what  de  folks  who  knows  de  woods  an'  de  varmints 
what  lives  in  'um  calls  '  Fox-fire ; '  an'  de  f us'  time 
you  happens  to  see  a  tall  stump  of  it  standin*  up  in 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Spotted  Coat       89 

de  dark  woods  about  midnight  you's  moughty  apt 
to  run,  if  you  kin  run. 

"  Away  back,  time  out  o'  mind,  a  lurge  an'  lazy 
ole  Wilecat  use'  to  hang  aroun'  de  camp  of  a  gang 
o'  timber-cutters  in  de  heart  o'  de  thick  woods. 
What  I's  tellin'  you  happen'  so  long  ago  it  was 
befo'  de  Ginnal  Jackson  War,  or,  maybe,  befo'  de 
Bible  Flood;  an'  dem  woodcutters  mought  ha' 
been  fellin'  timber  for  Noah's  Ark,  or  for  de  fust 
steamboat  dat  ever  runned  on  de  ole  Miss'ippi,  for 
all  I  knows;  but  dat's  nuther  here  nor  there. 

"  Somehow  or  ruther  dem  swampers  didn'  have 
no  dawgs  wid  'um;  an'  anywhars  you  goes  in  de 
woods  widout  dawgs,  a  possum,  a  coon,  or  a  wile- 
cat,  or  any  wile  varmint  mought  be  nigh  you  an* 
lookin'  right  at  you,  an'  dey  moves  so  quiet  an* 
hides  so  close,  you  won't  see  'urn. 

"  Well,  dat  'ticular  Mr.  Wilecat  hung  about  de 
camp  o'  dem  timber-cutters  hidin'  by  day,  an* 
prowlin'  aroun'  at  night  pickin'  up  de  cook-scraps. 
One  day,  when  all  ban's  was  at  work  away  in  de 
woods,  an'  de  cook  ha'  to  walk  out  to  town  atter 
flour  an'  lard  an'  fat  meat,  an'  sich  things,  he  lef 


90       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

a  lurge  roas'  rabbit  keepin'  warm  in  a  open  pot 
ag'inst  dinner-time  for  de  woodchoppers.  Wid  all 
de  mens  an'  de  cook  gone,  Mr.  Wilecat  sneaked 
right  into  de  camp  to  snatch  up  anything  good  to 
eat  he  could  lay  his  paws  on.  When  he  seed  dat 
roas'  rabbit  in  de  open  pot,  nice  an'  warm,  but  not 
too  hot  to  steal,  in  co'se  he  tuk  it  moughty  quick 
an'  slipped  back  in  de  bresh  wid  it.  He  foun'  it 
so  fine,  an',  as  long  as  de  timber-cutters  staid  in  de 
woods,  he  stole  an'  e't  so  much  cooked  grub,  he  los' 
his  nachal  tas'e  for  raw  meat  intirely. 

"  Bimeby  de  timber-gang  cut  down  an'  hauled 
out  all  de  timber  in  deir  contrack,  an'  moved  out 
o'  de  woods.  By  dat  time  Mr.  Wilecat  had  got  his 
mine  sot  on  cooked  vittles,  an'  wid  so  much  of  it 
he'd  got  too  fat  an'  lazy  to  ketch  it  livin'.  But 
soon  he  got  lean  enough  to  go  back  to  his  ole 
huntin'  ways,  only  he  always  stayed  hongry 
enough  for  cooked  meat  to  run  him  'most 
'str  acted. 

"  One  day  Mr.  Wilecat  met  up  wid  Mr.  Fox  in 
de  woods,  an'  when  dey  bofe  stopped  awhile  to 
pass  de  time  o'  day  an'  talk  about  de  huntin',  he 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Spotted  Coat       91 

tole  Mr.  Fox  all  about  his  'sperience  wid  cooked 
meat,  an'  his  mizz'ry  missin'  it. 

" '  Mr.  Fox,'  says  he,  *  you  des'  dunno  how 
moughty  good  cooked  meat  is:  you  kin  smell  it  a 
mile,  an'  you  kin  tas'e  it  all  de  way  in  de  swallerin', 
an'  on  down  atter  de  swallerin',  f 'om  de  way  mens 
fixes  it  wid  deir  fire,  whilst,  wid  yo'  raw  meat, 
it's  gone  an'  forgot  soon  as  you  swallers  it 
down.' 

"  Mr.  Fox  he  smiled  wid  his  eyes  an'  he  grinned 
wid  his  mouf  an'  looked  moughty  knowin' ;  den  he 
sot  down  an'  he  say: 

"  '  Mr.  Wilecat,  I  knows  sumpen'  'bout  cookin', 
myse'f .  Mens  has  deir  fire ;  but  I  has  my  fire,  too ; 
only  fox-fire  never  scorches  de  roas',  if  you  hap- 
pens to  forgit  de  meat's  on,  like  de  mens'  fire  does 
sometimes.  Maybe  my  fire  kin  cook  yo'  meat  mo' 
to  yo'  tas'e  ef  you  gives  it  a  trial.' 

"'Whar's  yo'  fire,  Mr.  Fox?'  axed  Mr.  Wile- 
cat,  wid  his  eyes  shinin',  an'  his  ears  cocked  to 
ketch  de  answer. 

: '  It's  away  off  yander,  in  a  part  o'  de  woods 
whar  you  has  never  yit  been ;  de  Sun's  mos'  down 


92       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

now  an'  we  kin  git  dar  by  good  dark,  travellin' 
lively,'  says  Mr.  Fox.  '  Come  along,  ef  you's  got 
de  time  to  spare,  an'  lemme  show  it  to  you.' 

"  Mr.  Wilecat  was  more'n  willin',  so  dey  trots 
away  brisk,  wid  Mr.  Fox  gwine  befo'  an'  Mr. 
Wilecat  close  behine.  Soon  atter  full  dark  dey 
struck  a  little  clearin'  in  de  woods  kivered  wid 
bresh  an'  saplin's.  In  de  middle  o'  dat  openin' 
stood  a  blazin'  big  stump  taller'n  two  mens. 
White  an'  yaller  shinin'  flames  o'  fire  was  creepin' 
all  over  dat  stump  an'  crawlin'  'round  it.  It  tar- 
rified  Mr.  Wilecat  so  much  he  wouldn'  go  nigh  it 
till  Mr.  Fox  had  walked  up  to  de  shinin'  stump  an' 
patted  it  wid  his  paws  an'  larfed  at  him  for  bein' 
af eared  of  it. 

" '  Dis  is  my  kitchen  an'  fireplace,'  says  Mr. 
Fox,  '  an'  ef  you  wants  to  see  fine  cookin'  des' 
come  to  me  here  wid  de  meat.  Ef  you's  so  fond  o' 
roas'  rabbit,  ketch  yo'  rabbit  an'  skin  him,  den 
bring  him  right  here,  an'  I'll  do  de  cookin',  takin' 
only  de  head  for  my  trouble  an'  givin'  you  all  de 
res'.' 

*'  *  Much  erbleeged  to  you,  Mr.  Fox,'  says  Mr. 


WHAT  DAT  COMINT'  THEW  DE  THICKET?  '  " 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Spotted  Coat       93 

Wilecat,  an'  off  he  runs  atter  his  rabbit.  Whilst 
he  was  gone  rabbit-huntin'  Mr.  Fox  loped  lightly 
home  to  have  a  little  chat  wid  Mrs.  Fox  an'  play 
wid  de  chilluns.  Atter  dat  he  trotted  back  to  de 
fox-fire  stump  to  wait  for  Mr.  Wilecat. 

"  Along  about  midnight  Mr.  Wilecat  come 
trottin'  up  to  de  fox-kitchen  wid  a  plump  wood 
rabbit  skinned  an'  all  ready  for  de  roastin',  sayin', 
as  he  handed  him  to  de  cook: 

"  '  I's  ruther  late,  Mr.  Fox,  but  a  midnight  sup- 
per's much  better'n  none/ 

"  *  Oh,  ain't  he  a  fine  fat  rabbit! '  'sclaimed  Mr. 
Fox,  holdin'  him  up  befo'  his  face  a  minnit,  den 
bustlin'  todes  de  fire  like  he  gwine  to  put  him  on 
right  off. 

"  Den  Mr.  Fox  stopped  sudden,  drapped  de 
rabbit,  stuck  out  his  ears,  tukked  his  tail  under  him 
like  he  was  badly  skeered,  an'  whispered  low: 

"  *  What  dat  comin'  thew  de  thicket? ' 

"  De  bushes  nigh  beginned  to  rustle  an'  de  sap- 
lin's  to  shake  like  somebody  breakin'  his  way  to  de 
midst  o'  de  clearin'. 

"'Look   out,   Mr.   Wilecat,   a  man's   comin!' 


94       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

squalled  Mr.  Fox;  an'  dey  bofe  lit  out  f'om  dar 
an'  fa'rly  flewed  thew  de  woods. 

"  Den  Madam  Fox  drapped  de  green  branch 
she'd  ben  beatin'  de  bushes  wid,  walked  up  to  de 
stump,  picked  up  de  skinned  rabbit  in  her  mouf, 
larfed  wid  her  eyes  an'  loped  on  home  wid 
him. 

"Along  todes  daybreak  Mr.  Wilecat  sneaked 
back  to  de  fox-fire  stump.  Nobody  was  dar  or 
nigh  de  place,  de  rabbit  was  missin'  an'  de  fire  was 
gwine  out.  Atter  takin'  notice  dere  was  no  man 
tracks  aroun'  he  went  on  home  to  study  some.  De 
nex'  night  he  met  up  wid  Mr.  Fox  in  de  woods 
ag'in  an'  axed  him  whar  was  dat  man  what  skeered 
him  so  bad,  an'  how  dat  dead  rabbit  manage'  to 
run  away  f'om  de  kitchen,  too? 

"  '  Oh,  Mr.  Wilecat,'  answers  Mr.  Fox,  *  all  dat 
noise  was  enough  to  skeer  anybody  in  de  woods 
out  o'  his  seven  senses;  but  I  seed  dis  mawnin'  by 
de  tracks  it  was  ole  Mr.  Buck  thrashin'  de  branches 
in  sharpenin'  his  horns.  It  was  Mr.  Hoot-Owl 
who  stole  dat  wood-rabbit,  an'  we's  los'  him  for 
good ;  but  ef  you  go  back  o'  de  woods  to-night  an' 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Spotted  Coat       95 

bring  me  one  o'  dem  big  ole  rabbits  what  lives  in 
de  ma'sh  I'll  sho'ly  show  you  what  my  cookin'  is, 
an'  you  may  eat  him  all  up  yo'se'f  from  his  head  to 
his  heels.' 

"  Wid  dat  Mr.  Wilecat  went  off  sort  o'  satis- 
fied, but  grumblin'  a  heap  ag'inst  Mr.  Buck  an' 
Mr.  Hoot-Owl;  an'  come  midnight  ag'in  he  was 
at  de  foxfire  stump  wid  a  skinned  ma'sh-rabbit 
much  lurger'n  de  one  he  los'.  Befo'  Mr. 
Fox  had  time  to  put  him  on  de  fire  here  come 
Madam  Fox  des'  streakin'  across  de  clearin'. 
Widout  slackin'  her  gait  she  squalled  back  over 
her  shoulder: 

"'Run!  —  run  for  yo'  lives!  —  dere's  a 
whole  pack  o'  dem  gre't  big  dogs  dat  don't 
bark  on  de  trail  comin'  dis  way!  —  dey's  mos' 
here!' 

"  Madam  Fox  flewed  on  souf.  Mr.  Fox  lit  out 
eas'  an*  Mr.  Wilecat  runned  wes'.  Den,  when  de 
yuthers  had  got  out  o'  hearin',  Madam  Fox 
trotted  back  to  de  clearin',  picked  up  de  skinned 
ma'sh  rabbit,  larfed  to  herse'f  ag'in,  an'  trotted 
back  to  her  chilluns. 


96       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  Mr.  Wilecat  was  too  badly  skeered  to  go  back 
to  Mr.  Fox's  kitchen  any  mo'.  De  nex'  evenin' 
late  Mr.  Fox  looked  him  up  an'  tole  him  dat  dem 
big  dogs  had  passed  to  one  side  o'  de  clearin'  an' 
never  even  smelt  'um;  an'  whilst  he  was  gwine 
back  at  sun-up  to  git  de  ma'sh-rabbit,  dat  gre't  red 
thief,  Mr.  Hare-Hawk,  had  flewed  down  an' 
grabbed  de  game  an'  tuk  it  away  to  de  top  of  de 
talks'  tree  on  de  back  aidge  o'  de  woods  whar  he 
lives. 

"When  he  finished  dat  tale,  says  Mr.  Fox: 
*  Let's  go  right  off,  Mr.  Wilecat,  an*  ax  dem  rob- 
bers, Mr.  Hoot-Owl  an'  Mr.  Hare-Hawk,  what 
dey  done  wid  our  rabbits? ' 

"  So  dey  sot  out  an*  trotted  along,  side  by  side, 
till  dey  come  to  de  foot  o'  de  holler  tree  whar  Mr. 
Hoot-Owl  had  his  home. 

"  '  Here's  de  fust  thief,'  'sclaims  Mr.  Fox;  '  look 
at  dese  four  red  feets  of  our  wood-rabbit,  fallen 
down  here  on  de  groun*  f 'om  Mr.  Owl's  front  door 
up  dar! ' 

"Den  Mr.  Wilecat  wauled  up  to  Mr.  Hoot- 
Owl: 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Spotted  Coat       97 

' '  Mr.  Hoot-Owl,  you  stole  my  wood-rabbit  an' 
I  wants  him  back.' 

"  Standin'  in  his  high  door,  lookin'  at  de  moon, 
Mr.  Owl  hooted  down: 

'  Who,  who,  who  cooks  for  you  all  ? ' 

At  the  old  woodsman's  wonderful  imitation  of 
that  bird  of  night  the  boy  beside  him  looked  up  in 
the  twilight  into  the  nearest  tree  as  if  the  notes 
came  from  their  natural  source. 

"  *  Des'  lissen  at  him,'  whispered  Mr.  Fox,  *  he 
shows  he's  de  thief,  for  he  even  knows  I  was  going 
to  cook  dat  rabbit.' 

"  Mr.  Wilecat,  at  dat,  yowled  up  to  Mr.  Hoot- 
Owl:  '  Shet  up  yo'  mouf,  you  ole  rogue  you,  an* 
gimme  back  my  rabbit  quick ! ' 

"  '  Who,  who,  who  cooks  for  you  all? '  Mr.  Owl 
hooted  back  at  him. 

"Dat  made  Mr.  Wilecat  so  mad  he  rattled  up 
de  tree  to  Mr.  Owl's  high  door-hole  to  kill  him; 
but  Mr.  Owl  stepped  inside  his  holler  when  he  seed 
him  comin';  an',  when  Mr.  Wilecat  poked  his  big 
head  in  de  door-hole,  which  was  all  he  could  push 
in,  Mr.  Hoot-Owl  clipped  him  across  de  face  with 


98       Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

his  hooked  bill  so  hard  it  made  him  yell,  an'  he 
backed  out  in  a  hurry  down  de  tree  to  ease  his  pain 
growlin'  on  de  groun*. 

"  Den  Mr.  Owl  come  to  his  door  ag'in,  an' 
looked  down  on  him  wid  his  big  eyes,  an'  hooted 
louder'n  ever: 

'  Who,  who,  who  cooks  for  you  all? ' 

"  '  Let's  git  away  f 'om  here,  Mr.  Fox,  befo'  dat 
thievin'  Owl  hoots  me  into  a  crazy-fit,'  growls  Mr. 
Wilecat. 

"As  dey  went  off,  Mr.  Owl  hooted  de  same 
words  in  far'well,  an'  Mr.  Wilecat  growled  back: 
'  I'll  fix  you  yit,  you  rabbit  robber! '  An'  den  he 
hasted  away  to  get  out  o'  hearin*  o'  dat  hateful 
owl-talk. 

"Day  had  broke  when  dey  reached  de  foot  o' 
Mr.  Hare-Hawk's  tree,  whar  dey  foun'  de  grey 
feets  o'  more'n  one  ma'sh  rabbit  on  de  ground 
right  under  de  Hawk-roost. 

"  Dar'  Mr.  Wilecat  didn'  tarry  to  do  any  talkin' 
wid  Mr.  Hare-Hawk.  Hopin'  to  ketch  him  asleep 
an'  kill  him  dead,  he  clammed  up  de  trunk  his 
swiftes'.  But,  when  he  got  up  to  de  perch-limb, 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Spotted  Coat       99 

dar  was  Mr.  Hawk  wide  awake,  wid  his  yaller  eyes 
shinin'  an'  waitin'  to  match  de  risin'  Sun. 

"  When  Mr.  Wilecat  struck  at  him  Mr.  Hare- 
Hawk  loosed  de  nimble  springs  in  his  legs  an* 
lifted  hisse'f  in  de  air  quicker'n  de  lick  o'  Mr. 
Wilecat's  paw ;  den  down  he  dashed,  give  dat  long 
back  one  deep  dig  wid  his  sharp  crooked  claws,  hit 
dat  roun'  head  one  hard  biff  wid  his  wings,  an' 
went  sailin'  out  over  de  ma'sh,  screamin' : 

"  *  Muow!  —  muow!  —  muow!  —  skewree!  — 
skewree !  —  skewree ! '  mockin'  Mr.  Wilecat  fust, 
an'  de  ma'sh-rabbit  las',  an'  tormentin'  him  more'n 
Mr.  Hoot-Owl  did  about  dem  los'  suppers." 
Again  the  old  man's  marvelous  mimicry  of  the 
Hare-Hawk's  hunting  screams  amazed  and  de- 
lighted the  listening  boy.  "  At  dat,  Mr.  Wilecat 
was  all  done.  He  clammed  back  down  de  Hawk- 
tree,  parted  wid  Mr.  Fox  too  sulky  to  say  a 
good-by  word,  an'  went  away  by  hisse'f  des' 
spittin'-mad.  An'  Mr.  Fox  tucked  one  o'  his  hine- 
legs  up  tight  an'  trotted  home  lazylike  an*  larfin' 
to  hisse'f  all  de  long  way. 

"  Some   time   atter  dat   Mr.   Wilecat   foun'   a 


100     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

rotten  tree  afire  an'  smolderin'  to  red  coals  all  over. 
Seein'  it  were  sho'  enough  men's  fire  he  went  an* 
cotched  him  a  rabbit  an'  skint  him,  an'  hilt  him  to 
de  fire  on  a  forked  stick  to  cook  him,  hisse'f,  wid- 
out  de  help  o'  Mr.  Fox.  Whilst  he  was  pokin'  an' 
proddin'  at  de  fire  de  top  o'  de  burnin'  trunk  crum- 
bled into  pieces  an*  tumbled  over,  an'  about  a  hun- 
dred hot  coals  an'  chunks  fell  down  all  over  his 
hide  f'om  head  to  tail.  If  dar  ever  was  a  time  for 
his  yowlin'  an'  waulin'  dat  was  it,  an'  he  done  it, 
too,  all  he  knowed  how.  When  his  hyar  Crowed 
back  ag'in,  it  come  out  black  in  every  place  dem 
coals  burnt  him:  an*  dat's  how  Mr.  Wilecat  got 
his  spotted  coat. 

"  Well,  here  we  is,  at  de  stable-gate  at  las' ;  an* 
it's  plumb,  pitch  dark.  Good  night,  Little  Mah- 
ster;  an'  please  tell  yo'  Paw  whar  we  foun'  dem 
los'  steers,  an'  how  de  rabbits  an'  de  deers  has  been 
1'arnin'  'um  to  run  ever  sence  dey's  been  livin'  out 
in  de  woods." 


VIII 


to 


IN  the  early  twilight  of  a  lovely  June  after- 
noon, returning  from  a  long  horseback  ride 
down  the  river  road,  the  Birdland  Boy  and 
his  twin  sister  found  the  young  Governess  seated 
alone  on  a  rustic  bench  beneath  one  of  the  big- 
gest and  furthest  live-oaks  of  the  mansion  grounds. 
When  they  rode  away  two  or  three  hours  before 

101 


102     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

they  had  left  her  on  that  same  bench  with  their  par- 
ticular friend  the  Doctor,  who  had  promised  to  re- 
main until  their  return,  if  he  were  not  called  away 
by  his  duties. 

As,  after  giving  their  ponies  to  the  waiting 
hostler,  they  ran  up  to  rejoin  Mademoiselle,  when 
they  were  near  enough  to  be  heard,  the  little  Girl 
cried : 

"  We  have  had  such  a  jolly  ride  and  a  glorious 
race,  and  my  pony,  Evangeline,  almost  beat  Cor- 
tez  home!" 

Evangeline  and  Cortez  were  the  names  of  their 
Acadian  and  Mexican  ponies,  both  of  which  had 
come  from  the  prairies  of  the  Teche  country. 

When  the  Twins  reached  the  bench  they  asked 
together  in  tones  of  disappointment. 

"But  what  has  become  of  the  Doctor?  He 
promised  to  stay  here  until  we  came  back." 

"  Very  'soon  after  you  left  he  rode  away  in  the 
other  direction,  and  I  have  been  here  all  alone  ever 
since,"  laughingly  replied  the  Governess.  "  The 
drone  of  the  breeze  in  the  leaves  above  me  was 
making  me  feel  very  drowsy  when  something  hap- 


Mr.  Jay  Brought  to  Judgment          103 

pened  which  wakened  me  widely  all  at  once;  and, 
if  you  will  quietly  sit  beside  me  and  listen,  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

It  did  not  need  the  "  cross-my-heart "  promise 
to  exact  silence  from  her  young  auditors;  and 
Mademoiselle  immediately  commenced  her  story, 
saying: 

"  As  my  eyes  were  beginning  to  close  with 
sleepiness  I  heard  a  remarkable  fluttering  and 
rustling  in  the  branches  above  me,  as  if  the  wind 
had  suddenly  risen  and  was  stirring  them  to  a 
louder  and  more  variable  sound  than  the  low  dro- 
ning that  had  almost  lulled  me  to  sleep.  Then  sud- 
denly burst  the  sound  of  many  bird  voices  from  all 
over  the  tree;  and,  looking  up  into  it,  I  saw  that 
very  many  birds  of  different  names  and  notes  had 
mysteriously  gathered  there  without  my  having 
seen  their  coming.  Not  one  of  all  of  that  multi- 
tude was  singing ;  but  they  were  all  chattering  and 
chirping  together  in  great  but  subdued  excitement, 
as  if  they  were  conversing  over  a  subject  of  in- 
tense general  interest. 

"  That  remarkable  meeting  of  so  many  differ- 


104     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

ent  kinds  of  birds  in  the  same  tree  was  quite  noisy 
at  first,  but,  very  soon,  a  deep  hush  fell  in  all  of 
the  feathered  assemblage. 

"A  crestfallen  Jay  appeared,  being  brought 
from  the  heart  of  a  thick 'thorny  bush  near,  with 
his  wings  tightly  bound  together,  and  conducted 
to  the  fork  of  two  stout  branches  in  the  very  mid- 
dle of  the  tree  by  two  red-coated  Cardinals,  who 
showed  by  their  uniform  that  they  were  law  officers 
for  the  court  of  the  birds  and  keepers  of  their  jails. 
In  that  tree-fork  the  bound  Jay  was  left  under  the 
charge  of  two  other  Cardinals  to  guard  against  his 
possible  escape. 

"  Then,  while  the  breathless,  heavy  silence  con- 
tinued, a  very  venerable  and  solemn-looking  Barn- 
Owl,  with  rings  of  grey  feathers,  which  resembled 
the  rims  of  big  spectacles,  around  his  eyes,  stepped 
with  slow  and  stately  pace  from  a  hollow  chamber 
up  in  the  trunk  of  the  tree.  He  stopped  and 
perched  on  a  great  lichen-covered  limb,  as  grey 
as  he,  above  that  awed  and  voiceless  feathered 
throng. 

"  I  was  wondering  the  meaning  of  it  all  when  I 


Mr.  Jay  Brought  to  Judgment          105 

was  told  in  a  most  surprising  way.  One  of  those 
enchanted  and  enchanting  fays  of  the  trees,  the 
flowers  and  the  air  was  my  informant.  He  was 
clad  in  a  coat  of  emerald  green  and  wore  a  brilliant 
ruby-colored  cravat  above  his  dainty  white  shirt. 
He  darted  down  like  a  jewelled  beam  of  light 
from  the  foliage  of  the  tree  above  me,  hung  hover- 
ing around  my  listening  ears  and  hummed  into 
them  in  a  voice  which,  fairy-like,  combined  the 
gift  of  human  speech  with  a  knowledge  of  the 
tongues  of  all  the  birds  in  the  world. 

"  In  his  enchanted,  humming  voice,  this  tiny  fay 
of  the  flowers  and  the  air  told  me  that  the  Jay  was 
about  to  be  tried  in  the  court  of  the  birds  before 
Judge  Barn-Owl  for  his  sins  and  crimes  against 
several  small  animals  and  defenseless  families  of 
birdkind;  and  he  explained  that  the  red-coated 
Cardinals  were  his  jailers,  and  if  he  were  found 
guilty  of  the  crimes  of  which  he  was  accused,  and 
happened  to  be  condemned  to  death,  the  Butcher- 
Bird  would  be  his  executioner. 

"  After  that  the  fay  of  the  emerald  coat  and  the 
ruby  cravat  and  the  enchanted  voice,  told  me 


106     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

everything  that  went  on  and  translated  all  that 
was  said  by  every  bird  that  figured  in  the  trial. 

"  Judge  Owl,  as  he  took  his  perch  of  justice  on 
his  hoary  old  limb,  looked  as  grave,  wise  and  sol- 
emnly pompous,  as  the  most  imposing  human 
judge  that  ever  sat  on  the  bench  in  the  law  courts 
of  mankind. 

"  In  the  hushed  pause  before  the  trial  com- 
menced the  attendant  throng  of  many  hundreds 
of  birds  of  different  feathers  exchanged  excited 
looks  that  spoke  more  than  words  or  chirps,  or 
turned  their  eyes  with  the  most  intense  or  horrified 
interest  on  the  blue  prisoner  in  the  forked  branch; 
I  say  '  blue '  because  the  poor  Jay's  expression  of 
countenance  was  as  blue  as  his  coat.  But  the  gaze 
of  the  Butcher-Bird,  who  stood  silent  behind  all 
of  the  seated  throng,  gloated  over  that  prisoner 
with  a  hard  and  hungry  look. 

"  In  that  interval  my  jewel-coated  fay  gave  me 
the  history  of  the  sinning  Jay  as  he  had  heard  it 
before  the  recent  capture  of  the  culprit. 

"  During  the  early  part  of  the  last  winter,  that 
unfortunate  Jay  had  reached  the  full  maturity  of 


Mr.  Jay  Brought  to  Judgment          107 

his  Jayhood,  and,  with  full-grown  size,  and  vigor- 
ous health  and  strength,  and  a  fine  education,  had 
started  out  in  the  world  apparently  on  a  brilliant 
and  promising  career.  He  had  been  one  of  a  fash- 
ionable circle  of  young  Jays  in  their  first  season 
of  the  foremost  of  feathered  society.  He  and  his 
particular  set  of  friends  were  among  the  most 
jovial  of  Jaykind.  They  all  wore  the  handsomest 
of  blue  coats,  trimmed  with  dainty  ruffles  of  white 
lace  at  the  tails,  the  most  stylish  of  dove-colored 
vests,  the  jettiest  of  black  satin  cravats  or  scarves, 
and  the  most  cockey  of  family  crests. 

"  With  many  cheers  and  jeers  and  gay  chaffings 
those  lively  young  chaps  had  romped  through 
forests,  raced  each  other  through  evergreen  shrub- 
bery and  danced  in  glee  on  the  ground  and  among 
the  twigs  of  leafless  trees  in  the  bright  and  bracing 
midwinter  days.  With  light  wings  and  nimble 
feet  they  had  enjoyed  together  many  a  game  of 
bird-tag  and  hide  and  seek  among  the  woods  and 
groves  and  evergreen  hedges. 

"  Then,  in  the  middle  of  February,  St.  Valen- 
tine's Day,  and  courting-time,  came  around;  and 


108    Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

the  merry  crew  of  young  bachelors  broke  up  their 
bird-club,  and  they  began  to  flit  with  elusive  or 
flirting  Jay-maids. 

"  Soon  the  prisoner-Jay,  up  there  guarded  by 
the  Cardinal-birds,  managed  to  win  the  prettiest, 
best-dressed,  and  daintiest  lace-trimmed  young 
Lady  Jay  that  ever  lived.  When  the  budding 
spring  arrived  the  newly-wed  pair  built  them- 
selves a  rather  rough  and  shabby  looking  nest,  in 
an  oak  branch  where  the  twigs  and  foliage  were 
thickest.  Perhaps  had  they  devoted  less  time  to 
pleasure  they  could  have  built  a  much  better 
home. 

"  All  went  along  merrily  and  happily  until  the 
final  egg  of  four  was  laid,  and  pretty  Mistress  Jay 
had  to  stay  ait  home  a  week  or  two  to  hatch  them. 
Then  young  Mr.  Jay  began  to  muse  over  the  good 
old  times  that  he  had  enjoyed  in  his  recent  bache- 
lor days.  He  took  less  and  less  kindly  to  the 
wedded  state.  He  found  there  was  no  fun  for  him 
to  be  had  in  the  hatching  of  children;  and,  with 
nothing  else  in  particular  to  do,  he  got  into  some 
very  bad  habits  born  of  idleness.  Such  habits  were 


Mr.  Jay  Brought  to  Judgment          109 

not  at  all  in  keeping  with  his  fine  clothes  and  his 
fair  reputation  in  first-class  feathered  society. 

"  For  days  at  a  time  he  shamefully  deserted  his 
faithful  young  wife,  while  she  had  to  stay  at  home 
devotedly  occupied  with  the  most  important  do- 
mestic duties  of  birdkind,  keeping  the  nest  clean 
and  hatching  a  family.  He  began  to  roam  about 
the  woods  and  the  world  in  a  worthless  vagabond 
way.  Without  considering  the  question  of  help- 
ing to  support  his  young  wife,  he  grew  too  lazy, 
even,  to  work  for  his  own  living.  But,  as  he  could 
not  live  and  have  a  gay  time  without  eating,  first 
he  became  a  petty  thief  and  pilfered  the  garnered 
is-eeds  and  grain  and  nuts  of  honest  and  provident 
little  animals  and  birds.  Next  he  became  noted 
as  a  common  robber  and  nest-breaker.  At  last  it 
was  whispered  around  among  the  timid  smaller 
birds  that  he  did  not  stop  at  stealing  and  eating 
eggs,  but  killed  and  devoured  a  tender,  unfledged 
nestling  now  and  then ;  and  that,  sometimes,  when 
they  were  unfortunately  too  well  feathered  for 
convenient  and  comfortable  swallowing,  he  would 
murder  them  for  that  fault  out  of  pure  malice. 


110     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  The  better  to  conceal  his  presence  or  his  plans 
from  the  lesser  birds,  who  feared  him  so  justly,  he 
completely  silenced  his  loud  voice  in  the  general 
nesting  season,  and  took  to  the  most  cunning  ways 
that  his  wicked  head  could  devise  to  carry  out  his 
dark  schemes  of  pillage  and  murder. 

"Despite  his  silence  and  his  secrecy  he  was  at 
last  caught  red-handed,  or  rather  red-beaked,  at 
the  scene  of  one  of  his  bloodiest  crimes;  and  there 
he  was,  at  last  brought  to  judgment  in  the  court  of 
the  birds. 

"  At  the  command  of  solemn  Judge  Barn  Owl 
the  Cardinal  Bird  officers  brought  up,  one  by  one, 
those  who  had  seen  and  suffered  most  from  the 
Jay's  horrible  and  depraved  wickedness. 

"First  the  Cardinal  Birds  whistled  for  the 
Ground  Squirrel  to  come  before  Judge  Barn  Owl 
and  tell  what  the  Jay  had  done  to  him. 

"  The  tiny  striped  Ground  Squirrel  popped 
from  a  hole  at  the  root  of  the  tree,  ran  up  and 
squatted  on  a  limb  just  below  Judge  Barn  Owl's 
perch  and  squeaked  in  a  thin  little  voice,  as  he 
pointed  a  tiny  paw  at  the  prisoner- Jay : 


"  '  RAN  UP  AND  SQUATTED  ON  A  LIMB  JUST  BELOW  JUDGE  BARN 

OWL'S  PERCH.'  " 


Mr.  Jay  Brought  to  Judgment          111 

"  '  Oh,  Judge,  that  is  the  very  same  Jaybird  that 
robbed  me.  I  know  him  well,  because  he  wears  a 
blue  coat,  a  dove-colored  vest,  a  black  cravat  and  a 
feather  crest.  He  stole  all  of  the  acorns  and  pecan 
nuts  I  had  gathered  for  my  family  last  Fall  and 
stored  in  our  home  under  the  roots  of  this  tree,  ex- 
pecting them  to  last  us  until  nutting  time  comes 
around  again.  And,  now,  I  and  my  wife  and  our 
poor  little  hungry  children  must  starve,  or  eat 
green  things,  which  don't  agree  with  our  little  ones 
at  all;  and  we  are  suffering  awfully  from  that 
Jaybird's  robbing  us  of  our  stored  food.' 

"  At  the  end  of  his  squeaking  the  little  Ground 
Squirrel  scuttled  quickly  back  to  his  home  at  the 
foot  of  the  tree-trunk  and  the  Field  Rat  ran  up  the 
tree  and  took  his  place.  Judge  Barn  Owl's  solemn 
eyes  took  on  rather  a  hungry  look  with  the  Field 
Rat  sitting  so  near  him,  as  if  he  would  like  to  stop 
the  case  for  lunch.  But  night  was  not  very  far 
away,  and  plenty  more  Field  Rats  would  be  then 
running  around  in  the  dark. 

"  The  Field  Rat  squealed,  in  a  still  thinner  voice 
than  the  Ground  Squirrel's,  a  tale  exactly  like  that 


112     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

of  little  '  Stripes;  '  only  the  Jay  had  stolen  his 
garnered  store  of  grass  seeds  and  field  grain. 
Some  of  the  birds  tittered  at  his  tale;  as  they  felt 
that  the  Field  Rat  had  robbed  them  and  man  of 
what  he  had  stored  up  for  himself. 

"  Next  came  the  Baltimore  Oriole  to  tell  of  the 
Jay's  graver  crimes,  chirping  out: 

"  '  In  the  middle  of  March  I  returned  from  a 
distant  winterless  land  to  my  native  Summer  home 
with  my  beloved  mate.  When  we  came  back  we 
flew  about  enjoying  ourselves,  and-,  at  the  same 
time,  looking  for  a  suitable  nesting-place  safe 
from  climbing  creature  or  stormy  weather.  We 
found  the  loveliest  spot  in  the  world  for  our  family 
home;  and  there  we  wove  a  soft,  weather-tight, 
deep  nest,  hanging  it  securely  to  the  tip  of  a  sway- 
ing limb,  so  that  when  our  babies  came  they  might 
be  rocked  to  sleep  in  their  cradle  by  the  winds. 

" '  One  bright  and  beautiful  May  morning, 
when  my  mate  was  sitting  on  our  eggs  near  the 
end  of  the  long  and  weary  hatching  time,  that  Jay 
there  cruelly  attacked  our  home.  Unfortunately 
I  was  at  the  time  far  out  in  the  sunny  fields  seek- 


Mr.  Jay  Brought  to  Judgment          113 

ing  food  for  her  at  home.  During  my  absence  that 
brutal  bird  rushed  up  to  the  nest,  tore  it  open  with 
his  beak  and  claws,  beat  her  almost  senseless  with 
his  strong  wings,  threw  her  down  to  the  ground; 
and,  while  she  lay  there  helpless,  devoured  all  of 
our  eggs,  one  after  another,  in  horrible,  greedy 
gulps. 

'  Thus  did  he  rob  our  nest  and  murder  our 
babes  unhatched ! ' 

"  At  the  end  of  the  Oriole's  pitiful  tale  a  deep 
sigh  welled  up  from  the  breasts  of  nearly  all  of  the 
listening  birds,  and  a  meek  Turtle-Dove  in  the 
midst  of  them  uttered  a  low  coo  of  mourning. 

"  After  a  considerable  pause  a  whole  colony  of 
English  sparrows  came  scuffling  and  wrangling 
and  crowding  into  the  bird-court.  The  Cardinal- 
Bird  officers  tried  in  vain  to  silence  them  and  to 
turn  them  out  until  they  became  more  quiet  and 
less  excited.  They  almost  obliterated  the  seemly 
gravity  of  Judge  Barn  Owl  with  an  expression  of 
tortured  distraction,  and  gained  the  contempt  of 
every  dignified  and  self-respecting  bird  pres- 
ent. 


114     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  Those  very  ill-mannered  birds  even  kept  up 
their  rough  jostling  and  noisy  chattering  when 
they  were  crowded  on  the  limb  in  the  very  august 
presence  of  Judge  Barn  Owl,  where  the  other  ac- 
cusers of  the  culprit,  Jay,  had  told  their  woeful 
tales.  They  all  began  to  talk  at  once,  and  not  two 
of  them  could  tell  the  same  story  in  similar  words. 
The  wisest  bird- judge  that  ever  lived  must  have 
had  his  wits  tangled  so  that  he  could  not  make 
heads  or  tails  of  any  such  jargon. 

"  At  last  the  biggest  Cock-Sparrow  there  beat 
and  bullied  all  of  his  companions  into  temporary 
silence,  and  told  a  tale  which  proved  to  be  more 
tragic,  from  his  point  of  view,  than  was  the 
Oriole's;  although  the  other  birds  in  the  audience 
were  not  of  the  same  opinion. 

*'  That  Cock-Sparrow  declared,  —  and  most 
people  hope  truthfully,  —  that  the  accused  Jay 
had  boldly  and  often  flown  up  to  their  colony  nests 
beneath  the  mossy  eaves  of  the  old  coach-house  of 
that  veiy  place,  eaten  their  eggs,  swallowed  their 
little  naked  nestlings,  and  beaten  to  death  numer- 
ous others  of  their  feathered  young  folk  who  were 


Mr.  Jay  Brought  to  Judgment          115 

beginning  to  fly,  and  dashed  their  bodies  to  the 
ground  with  wanton  cruelty. 

"  I  told  my  little  Jewel-fay,"  said  Mademoiselle, 
"  that  I  could  bear  witness  to  the  truth  erf  that 
Cock- Sparrow  accusation,  myself,  as  I  had  seen 
the  Jay  busy  on  the  commendable  job;  but  that  he 
must  not  inform  Judge  Barn  Owl  what  I  had  told 
him  in  strict  confidence,  as  I  did  not  like  to  get 
mixed  up  in  the  great  case. 

"  There  were  too  many  witnesses  to  these  dark 
and  tragic  crimes  of  the  Jay  against  that  Sparrow 
Colony  for  any  defense  or  denial  of  them  to  stand. 
Besides,  he  had  been  caught  by  the  Cardinal  Bird 
officers  in  the  very  act  of  committing  them. 

"  When  the  Cock- Sparrow  had  finished  his 
tragic  tale  no  tears  appeared  to  fall  from  the  eyes 
of  any  other  kind  of  bird  present;  which  seemed, 
in  my  mind,  to  prove  that  the  Sparrow,  as  an  in- 
dividual, in  families  and  in  colonies,  is  about  the 
most  unpopular  member  of  Bird  society.  Sparrows 
collectively,  have  very  bad  manners,  are  greedy  at 
meals,  loud  and  noisy  at  work  or  play,  and  are  the 
greatest  gossips  among  all  of  bird-kind.  There- 


116     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

fore,  it  is  no  wonder  that  they  are  so  heartily  dis- 
liked by  all  decent  and  self-respecting  birds. 

"  However,  as  the  fay  of  the  green  coat,  ruby 
cravat,  and  humming  voice  sorrowfully  told  me, 
the  law  among  all  birdkind  is  that  the  life  of  a 
Sparrow  is  equal  before  the  law  to  the  life  of  an 
Eagle;  and  whoever  deprives  him  or  her  or  it  of 
it  purposely  is  guilty  of  the  greatest  crime  among 
birds;  the  punishment  of  which  is  death. 

"  When  this  marvelous  trial  was  finished  Judge 
Barn  Owl  was  compelled  to  condemn  the  guilty 
Jay  to  die.  The  awful  sentence  was  that  he  should 
be  immediately  beheaded  by  the  Butcher  Bird,  and 
that  his  crested  head  should  be  spiked  on  the  top- 
most twig  of  the  tallest  tree  near  the  scene  of  his 
crimes  as  a  warning  to  all  birdkind  to  kill  no  fel- 
low-bird, little  or  big,  old  or  young. 

"  Then  the  four  Cardinal  Birds,  two  of  whom 
fcad  brought  him  in  and  two  been  chosen  to  guard 
him,  as  I  have  told  you,  surrounded  the  doomed 
Jay  and  started  to  lead  him  out  to  the  Butcher 
Bird's  scaffold,  a  tall  thorny  locust  standing  alone 
in  a  field. 


Mr.  Jay  Brought  to  Judgment          117 

"  The  Butcher  Bird  followed  them  closely  with 
a  gleam  of  cruel  joy  in  his  glittering  eye  at  the  de- 
lightful job  before  him.  It  is  the  Butcher  Bird's 
greatest  pleasure  in  life  to  behead  a  victim  with 
his  ax-bill  and  impale  the  head  on  a  long  and  sharp 
locust  thorn  or  spike. 

"  When  they  started  for  the  lone  locust  tree  I 
came  to  the  rescue  of  the  poor  Jay  with  a  loud  and 
angry  scream.  My  jewelled  fay  flashed  up  into 
the  air  in  a  flight  so  fast  as  to  be  almost  invisible; 
and  a  sudden  silence  seemed  to  fall  in  the  entire 
tree  above  me.  There  was  not  even  the  whisper 
of  one  leaf  to  another,  for  the  light  summer  wind 
had  died  away. 

"  All  of  my  Bird-Court  was  as  empty  as  if  I  had 
only  dreamed  that  it  was  crowded  with  a  throng 
of  feathered  spectators  who  had  gathered  to  wit- 
ness the  last  act  in  one  of  the  sad  tragedies  of  bird- 
life. 

"  And  now  as  it  is  about  time  for  us  to  get  ready 
for  supper,  let's  run  a  footrace  to  the  house  to  see 
who  can  get  there  first." 


IX 


?2?f  merit 


IN  one  of  their  warm  Summer  night-sessions 
on  the  rustic  bench  of  the  lawn,  where  he  was 
told  the  tale  of  "  The  Time  the  Moon  Fell," 
the  Birdland  Boy,  with  his  usual  skill  and  tact, 
contrived  to  wheedle  the  following  story  out  of  the 
feignedly   reluctant   but   really   delighted    Uncle 
Jason. 

After  a  considerable  amount  of  beating  around 

the  bush,  looking  up  at  the  stars,  watching  the 
118 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Himself          119 

climbing  of  the  recently-risen  moon,  and  grave 
prophesying  of  what  kind  of  weather  was  going  to 
happen  for  a  month  or  more,  the  old  man  got  a 
good  start  on  the  tale  and  kept  it  up  steadily  to 
the  end,  relating : 

"  I  b'leeves  I's  done  tole  you  a  long  while  ago 
about  dat  time  when  Mr.  Fox  fooled  ole  Mr.  Wile- 
cat  into  ketchin'  a  couple  o'  fat  rabbits,  —  or  were 
it  possums?  —  for  hisse'f  an'  his  fambly;  an'  not 
so  long  sence  about  how  he  sort  o'  'sputed  an* 
sassed  ole  Jedge  B'ar  dat  time  de  moon  felled. 

"  Now,  like  some  folkses  what's  always  proj- 
ickin'  aroun'  wid  deir  smart  ways,  tryin'  to  trick, 
or  to  make  fun  o',  or  to  fool  somebody  else,  come 
a  time  when  Mr.  Fox  fooled  his  own  se'f  so  badly 
practisin'  his  smartness  des'  a  leetle  bit  too  far  he 
got  cured  o'  his  foolishness  for  a  good  long  time. 

"  Mr.  Fox  begins  his  fun  by  goin'  aroun'  ev'y- 
whars  startin'  a  story  in  de  woods  dat  Mr.  Wolf 
had  come  back  to  dem  parts  ag'in,  an'  he  must  be 
layin'  aroun'  somewhars  in  close  hidin'  by  day  to 
begin  his  dang'ous  night-huntin'  once  mo'.  Mr. 
Wolf  had  been  gone  away  f 'om  dem  woods  for  sich 


120     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

a  long  time  dat  all  de  yuther  varmints  had  come  to 
b'leeve  dat  he  was  gone  away  for  good  an'  all;  an' 
dey  was  moughty  glad  of  it,  I  kin  tell  you. 

"Mr.  Fox  claim'  he  had  seed  for  hisse'f  Mr. 
Wolf's  wide  tracks  in  a  part  o'  de  woods  whar  but 
few  o'  de  varmints  ever  rambled.  He'd  run  across 
dem  tracks  soon  in  de  mawnin',  when  he  were 
gwine  home  f 'om  his  own  huntin',  or  his  henhouse 
prowlin',  or  whatever  mischeevousness  he  happen' 
to  be  at. 

"  Dat  was  moughty  bad  news  for  many  o'  de 
small  varmints  in  de  woods ;  an'  for  some  o'  de  big 
ones,  too.  It  made  Madam  Wile-Hawg  moughty 
oneasy  about  de  ramblin's  aroun'  o'  her  lurge 
fambly  o'  fat  tender  little  shoatses.  Likeways  it 
made  Madam  Doe-deer  des'  as  anxious  about  her 
pretty  twin  spotted  fawns,  what  spo'ted  an' 
dodged  about  in  de  shadders  o'  de  trees  an*  skipped 
an'  danced  in  de  sunshine  o'  de  clearin's.  It  even 
moughtily  troubled  Madam  Wilecat  wid  thinkin' 
about  her  furry  an'  frolicsome  kittens  playin'  wid 
an'  hittin'  at  de  fallin'  leaves  an'  thissle-haids,  an' 
sich,  aroun'  her  house  whilst  she  an'  ole  Mr.  Wile- 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Himself          121 

cat  was  a  gone  a  huntin',  or  a  thievin',  mos'  likely. 
Den  Mr.  Possum  reckomember  dat  lie  was  de  one 
who  done  de  mos'  to  spread  dat  funny  tale  all  over 
de  woods  about  Mr.  Wolf  leavin'  a  nice  fat  Spring 
lamb,  which  were  already  fa'rly  in  his  mouf,  to 
steal  a  big  bag  o'  new-fleeced  wool.  An'  Mr.  Pos- 
sum begin  to  wonder  right  hard  ef  Mr.  Wolf 
knowed  dat  or  not,  an'  how  much  he  hilt  ag'inst 
him  ef  he  did  know  it.  So  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
keep  off  o'  de  groun'  a  spell  an'  stick  to  de  trees 
much  as  he  could  whilst  Mr.  Wolf  staid  in  de 
woods. 

"  In  co'se  Mr.  Rabbit  was  de  wussest  skeered 
o'  any  an'  all  o'  de  critters  in  de  woods  at  de  bad 
news  brung  by  Mr.  Fox.  He  didn'  git  it  straight 
f'om  Mr.  Fox,  hisse'f ;  bekase  ef  Mr.  Rabbit  hap- 
pen to  meet  up  wid  Mr.  Fox  in  de  woods  or  de 
fiel's  he  neber  tarries  none  to  tell  him  de  time  or 
day  nor  to  talk  to  him  about  de  wedder.  He 
knows  dat  Mr.  Fox  likes  him  too  well  to  part  wid 
him  ef  dey  ever  git  in  shake-ban'  distance  o'  each 
udder ;  an'  it's  de  same  way  wid  him  an'  Mr.  Wile- 
cat.  But  Mr.  Coon,  he  got  de  tale  about  Mr. 


122     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Wolf's  comin'  back  to  de  woods  ag'in  straight 
f'om  Mr.  Fox;  an'  he  tole  it  straighter  to  Mr. 
Rabbit.  So,  when  Mr.  Rabbit  hearn  dat  tur'ble 
news,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  home  right  off 
de  reel,  an'  take  all  o'  his  fambly  along  wid  him 
an'  camp  out  in  de  closes',  thickes',  thorniest  briar- 
patch  he  could  find  in  a  day's  s'arch,  ontell  de  good 
news  mought  come  ag'in  dat  Mr.  Wolf  had  gone 
f'om  de  woods  about  his  dangersome  bizness  some- 
wharselse. 

"  Come  de  nex'  night  dat  true  tale  o'  Mr.  Fox's, 
about  Mr.  Wolf's  comin'  back  ag'in  to  de  woods, 
had  trabbled  aroun'  so  far  an'  fas',  —  like  bad 
news  always  does,  —  dat  dar  wasn'  a  varmint  in  all 
de  wilderness  but  what  hadn'  hearn  it,  —  an'  hearn 
it  a  heap  stronger'n  it  fust  started,  too.  Dey  was 
mos'ly  all  'sturbed  an'  skeered  enough,  I  kin  tell 
you.  Dat  is,  all  of  'urn  was  'cep'n'  ole  Jedge  B'ar 
an'  big  Mr.  Pant'er.  Dey  warn't  af eared  o'  Mr. 
Wolf  de  leas'  bit ;  an'  dey  only  hoped  for  a  chance 
to  ketch  him  an'  lay  de  paws  o'  righteous  punish- 
ment on  him  des'  once ! 

"  Dat  day  Mr.  Fox  fix  de  plan  an'  got  things 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Himself          123 

ready  for  de  fun  he  had  laid  out  to  begin  at  de  fust 
comin'  o'  de  dark  an'  de  risin'  o'  de  full  moon. 
Some  time  back  he  had  foun'  a  los'  huntin'-hawn 
somewhars  in  de  woods,  an*  he  had  1'arnt  how  to 
blow  it  des'  like  de  way  of  a  howlin'  wolf,  like  some 
huntsmens  does  to  call  up  los'  dawgs,  an'  like  I  kin 
do  myself.  Dat  put  de  tricky  projick  in  Mr. 
Fox's  haid  to  fool  an'  skeer  all  de  varmints  in  de 
woods  for  a  night  by  playin'  Mr.  Wolf. 

"  So,  come  dark,  Mr.  Fox  picked  up  his  hunts- 
man's-hawn  an'  slips  away  quiet  an'  easy  deep  into 
de  woods  whar  de  full  darkness  corned  fust.  Dar 
he  sot  down  on  his  ha'nches  an'  smile  aroun', 
lookin'  smart  an'  happy  at  de  prospick  of  de  gre't 
fun  comin'.  Den,  like  Mr.  Wolf  singin'  his  fust 
night-huntin'  howl,  he  blowed  a  moughty  low  but 
fur-trabblin'  cry: 

"  *  Woo-woo-wooah! ' 

"Mon,  all  o'  de  varmints  widin  hearin'  o'  dat 
howl  stopped  right  in  deir  own  tracks  to  lissen  an' 
see  ef  dey  hadn'  'ceived  deyse'f's,  an'  1'arn  ef  dey's 
hearn  right  by  hearin'  it  ag'in ! 

"  '  Woo-woo-wooah ! ' 


124     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  Dar  was  no  doubtin'  or  'sputin'  dat,  an'  dey 
all  puts  out  to  look  for  home  an'  safety. 

"  Mr.  Buck  an*  Madam  Doe-deer  hid  deir 
spotted  twin  fawns  in  de  closes'  bresh  dey  could 
find,  an'  stood  on  guard  togedder  over  deir  hidin'- 
place,  wid  deir  eyes  shinin'  angry-red  in  de  white 
moonshine. 

"  Madam  an'  Mr.  Wile-Hawg  ringed  in  deir 
squealin'  little  shoatses  behine  'um  wid  deir  long 
snouts,  an'  gnashed  deir  long  white  tushes  warnin* 
off  danger. 

"  Mr.  Possum  clambed  to  de  top  o'  his  'simmon 
tree,  qurled  hisse'f  up  in  de  las'  fork,  an'  tuk  a 
tight  hitch-holt  aroun'  a  tough  limb  wid  his  tail  to 
save  hisse'f  in  case  he  mought  drap  asleep  befo' 
mawnin'  an'  fall  down  into  Mr.  Wolf's  wide  mouf. 

"  Mr.  Rabbit  suddintly  changed  his  mind  about 
de  thick  thorny  briar  patch  bein'  de  safes'  place  to 
keep  Mr.  Wolf  away  an'  he  bounced  out  an'  run 
an'  bunched  hisse'f  an'  his  whole  fambly  in  a  holler 
lawg  too  little  for  big,  black,  red-moufed,  white- 
toofed  Mr.  Wolf  to  squeeze  his  way  in. 

"  Mr.  Muskrat  run  his  stumblin'  blunderin'  way 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Himself          125 

for  de  ma'sh,  an'  buried  hisse'f  deep  down  in  his 
reed  an'  grass  moun'. 

"  Madam  an'  ole  Mr.  Wilecat  hurry'  home  f 'om 
deir  huntin'  an'  locked  up  deir  chilluns  in  de  house. 
Den  dey  stood  inside  de  do',  wid  deir  backs  riz  an' 
deir  furrer  stickin'  out,  growlin'  an'  spittin'  in  deir 
gre't  incitement. 

"  *  Woo-woo-wooah  I '  blowed  Mr.  Fox,  comin' 
thew  de  woods  slow,  like  Mr.  Wolf  was  startin' 
ahead  on  his  huntin'  trail.  An'  de  yuther  varmints 
lay  so  close  an'  quiet  dat,  when  de  echo  died,  de 
dark  woods  was  as  still  as  a  graveyard  wid  even  de 
wind  buried  dar. 

"'Woo-woo-wooah!'  ag'in  blows  Mr.  Fox, 
movin*  a  leetle  faster. 

"  An'  like  a  live  an'  loud  echo  here  comes  an- 
udder  noise  breakin'  in  on  de  aidge  o'  de  woods  : 

"  '  Woo  -  woo  -  erroo  -  erroo  -  yow  -  woo  -  yow  - 
yow  -  erroo ! ' 

"  Mr.  Fox  stopped  right  suddint  an'  still ;  an' 
he  drapped  his  hawn  an'  let  his  bushy  tail  fall  till 
de  een'  teched  de  groun',  an'  cocked  his  ears  to 
lissen: 


126     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

'  Woo  -  erroo  -  yow  -  yow  -  erroo  -  yow  -  woo  - 
erroo!'" 

The  old  man's  wonderful  mimicry  of  a  hound- 
pack  in  full  cry  had  been  learned  from  the  music 
of  many  a  chase  he  had  followed  as  master  of  the 
hounds  in  his  youth  and  prime. 

"  Mr.  Fox  well  knowed  dat  chune.  Bio  win'  his 
fool  huntin'-hawn  he  had  done  gone  an*  woked  up 
de  whole  houn'-pack  out  on  de  plantashun!  An' 
here  dey  corned,  hot  an'  whoopin',  to  jine  Mr. 
Fox's  little  frolic.  An'  ef  dar's  one  thing  a  good 
houn'-pack  likes  better'n  anudder  it's  chasin'  foxes 
an'  wilecats  in  de  bright  moonlight.  Somehow  dey 
spar's  Mr.  Buck-deer  den.  But  it's  far'well  wid 
Mr.  Fox  an'  good-by  Mr.  Wilecat,  ef  rale  true 
houn's  gits  a  fa'r  chance  to  chase  'um  in  de  moon- 
light. 

"  '  Erroo  -  erroo  -  yow  -  woo  -  yow  -  erroo ! ' 

"  Here  dey  comes,  like  a  whirlwin',  havin'  foun' 
Mr.  Fox's  hot  trail  an'  singin'  deir  bestes'  an'  hap- 
pies'  over  it.  An',  ef  Mr.  Fox  was  lookin'  for  sho' 
enough  fun,  he  sho'ly  did  find  it  den. 

"  Lookin'  moughty   sour   at   dat  huntin'-hawn 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Himself          127 

what  had  been  skeerin'  his  brer-varmints  to  his  full 
satisfaction,  but  which  had  brung  on  de  houn's 
atter  Urn,  Mr.  Fox  humps  his  back,  holds  up  his 
bushy  tail  cl'ar  o'  de  daid  leaves  an'  trash,  limbers 
his  laigs,  an'  puts  out  f'om  dar! 

"  *  Woo  -  erroo  -  yow  -  erroo  -  yow  -  woo ! ' 

"  Mon,  as  de  houn's  come  nigher,  all  de  trees  o' 
de  woods  was  a  wooin'  an'  a  yowin',  an'  a  errooin', 
an'  dar  warn't  no  time  for  Mr.  Fox  to  tarry  none 
den! 

"  He  breaks  away  for  Jedge  B'ar;  squallin* 
when  he  comes  up: 

' '  Oh,  Jedge  B'ar,  a  hundered  houn's  is  comin' 
close  behine  me!  What  I  gwine  to  do  to  'scape 
'um?  Won't  you  hit  an'  bite  an'  hug  'uin  to  deaf 
forme?' 

"  Jedge  B'ar  snorts  back  at  him: 

"  *  Who  was  dat  Smart  Alec  what  'sputed  my 
word  dat  time  de  Moon  fell  an'  riz  ag'in  des'  like 
I  said  it  would?  Who  was  dat  cunnin'  critter, — 
maybe  'twarn't  you,,  —  what  tricked  all  de  yuther 
varmints  tryin'  de  Wolf -howl  on  a  huntin'-hawn, 
des*  now;  an'  brung  all  dem  dawgs  atter  yo'se'f  ? 


128     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Don't  ax  me  to  holp  you  when  you's  tricked 
yo'se'f  into  trouble,  bekase,  bein'  wiser'n  me, 
you  sho'ly  is  smart  enough  to  trick  yo'se'f  out  of  it 
ag'in.' 

'  Woo  -  yow  -  erroo  -  yow  -  woo  -  yow ! ' 

"  Mr.  Fox  flees  to  Mr.  Buck-deer : 

"  *  Oh,  Mr.  Buck-deer,  won't  you  please  save  me 
f 'om  dem  follerin'  houn's,  an'  fight  'um  off  wid  yo' 
sharp  hawns  an'  your  keen  huffs? ' 

"Mr.  Buck-deer  answers  back: 

"  '  I  got  to  fought  hard  enough  to  'fend  myse'f 
an'  my  Doe  an'  fawns  widout  foughtin'  for  you! 
Who  dat  blowed  de  huntin'-hawn  like  Mr.  Wolf 
on  de  night-huntin'  trail?  Better  go  see  ef  he  kin 
save  you! ' 

"  An*  Mr.  Buck-deer  stomped  his  foot,  tossed 
up  his  branchin'  hawns,  an'  looked  proud  at  his 
Doe  an'  saft  todes  de  thicket  whar  dey'd  hid  deir 
spotted  fawns. 

"  *  Yow  -  wow  -  erroo  -  woo  -  erroo  -  yow! ' 

"  Mr.  Fox  flees  for  Mr.  Wilecat's  house: 

"  '  Oh,  Mr.  Wilecat,  open  yo'  do'  a  leetle  an' 
lemme  in,  de  houn's  is  hard  atter  me  an'  moughty 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Himself          129 

close  behine  me;  an'  I's  mos'  out  o'  breaf.  Please 
lemme  in  an'  save  me? ' 

" '  Who  played  he  was  big,  black  Mr.  Wolf  an' 
blowed  de  woods  full  o'  dogs  an'  stopped  our  night- 
huntin'?  You  better  go  an'  ketch  yo'  breaf  back 
an'  blow  'um  out  ag'in,  so  dis  fambly  kin  find  a 
supper  1 ' 

"  Wid  dat  Mr.  Wilecat  cracks  his  do'  open  des' 
wide  enough  to  hit  an'  spit  at  Mr.  Fox;  den  he 
banged  it  in  his  face! 

"  '  Woo  -  yow  -  wow  -  erroo  -  woo  -  yowl ' 

"  Mr.  Fox  flees  on  an'  on  to  de  home  of  ev'y 
varmint  in  de  woods  he  knows  well;  but  he  was 
'fused  a  hidin'-place  everywhars,  bekase  he  had 
fooled  an*  tricked  'um  all  so  off  en;  an'  dey  all 
'spected  it  were  he  dat  had  played  Wolf  and 
started  de  mischief  o'  bringin'  de  houn's  in  de 
woods  an'  makin'  'um  stay  at  home  hongry  all 
night. 

"  At  las'  tired  out,  wid  his  tail  draggin',  an' 
ready  to  drap,  he  come  to  Mr.  Polecat's  house, 
which  were  in  a  big  holler-stump,  kivered  thick 
wid  a  pile  o'  bresh  an'  daid  sticks  on  top,  wid  a  side 


130     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

hole  at  de  groun'  des'  lurge  enough  for  Mr.  Fox 
to  squeeze  in  by  de  tightes'. 

"  De  houn's  was  gittin'  intil'y  too  close  for  him 
to  try  gwine  on  to  anudder  neighbor's;  so  he  ax: 

"  *  Oh,  Mr.  Polecat,  won't  you  please  lemme 
hide  in  yo'  house?  I's  broke  down  wid  de  hardes' 
o'  runnin'  befo'  de  houn's,  an'  dey's  too  nigh  now 
for  me  to  go  no  furder! ' 

"  Says  Mr.  Polecat,  easy  an'  perlite: 

"  '  Step  right  in,  Mr.  Fox,  an'  make  yo'se'f  at 
home.  No  houn's  ain't  a  gwine  to  'sturb  you  here. 
Dey  likes  to  keep  too  keen  a  aidge  on  deir  noses  to 
stop  to  visit  my  house;  an*  dey  won't  spile  de 
scent  stoppin'  now.  Dey'll  go  right  on  by  an* 
leave  you  alone  ef  you  stays  here  a  week.  Sot 
down  an*  res'  yo'se'f.' 

"  Wid  dat  Mr.  Fox  squirms  an'  squeezes  hisse'f 
into  de  side  do'  scrapin'  consid'able  hyar  off  o'  his 
back  an'  sides,  de  fit  was  so  close. 

"'Sniff!— Sniff!'  snuffs  he.  'Don't  you 
neber  give  yo'  house  a  leetle  airin',  Mr.  Polecat? 
It  smell  sort  o'  close  in  here  to  me! ' 

" '  Now  an'  den  I  does,  once  ev'y  Spring,  ef  I 


OH,     MR.     POLECAT,     WON'T     YOU     PLEASE     LEMME     HIDE     IN     YO' 
HOUSE?  '  " 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Himself  131 

don't  forgit  it,'  'spon's  Mr.  Polecat.  '  But  de 
smells  makes  it  sort  a  homelike,  bekase  ev'y  fambly 
likes  its  own  smells  best.' 

"  Well,  Mr.  Fox  hatter  stay  in  Mr.  Polecat's 
house  until  daylight,  sniffin'  an'  snuffin'  an' 
sneezin',  ontell  all  de  baffled  houn's  give  up  de  job 
o'  huntin'  him  an'  went  back  home  on  de  planta- 
shun. 

"  At  de  break  o'  day  Mr.  Fox  tells  Mr.  Polecat 
good-by  widout  stoppin'  to  shake  han's  wid  him, 
an'  he  goes  straight  home,  hisse'f,  smellin'  wusser'n 
ef  he  had  been  daid  a  week.  When  he  gits  in  de 
do'  o'  his  own  house  Madam  Fox  she  squalls 
out: 

"  '  Phew!  —  whar  has  you  been,  Mr.  Fox?' 

"  Mr.  Fox  he  'spon's  moughty  sheepish,  but 
tryin'  to  hide  it  de  bes'  he  could  by  bein'  sort  o' 
bullyin'  cross: 

f '  I  ain't  been  nowhars  in  'ticular ;  I  des'  went 
an*  mistook  a  skunk  for  a  groun'-squrl ;  an*  I 
jumped  on  him  too  quick.' 

"'Well,  well,  well!'  answers  Madam  Fox,  *I 
knowed  sumpen'  anudder  was  gwine  to  happen, 


132    Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

bekase  I  dreamp  las'  night  dat  I  hearn  ole  Mr. 
Wolf  come  back  to  de  woods  howlin'  on  his 
huntin'-trail  early  in  de  night.  Den  I  went  on  an' 
dreamp  I  hearn  de  houn'-pack  yowin'  an'  errooin' 
all  over  de  woods  mos'  all  night.  But  mistakes  is 
mistakes;  an'  maybe  ef  you'll  go  an*  take  a  good 
hot  baff  you  will  smell  a  little  better,  Mr.  Fox.' 

"  But  Mr.  Fox  couldn'  get  back  his  nachal  foxy 
smell  for  more'n  a  month  o'  washin's  in  warm  baffs 
or  cool,  runnin'  branch-water. 

"  De  wussest  of  it  was  dis :  he'd  done  played  so 
many  tricks  an'  projicks  on  all  de  yuther  varmints, 
an'  deir  time  was  come  at  las'.  Ev'y  varmint  he 
met  up  wid  in  de  woods  would  stop  an'  walk  all 
aroun'  him  a  sniffin'  an'  a  snuffin',  an'  dey'd  say  in 
a  smilin'  way: 

"  '  Howdye,  Mr.  Wolf,  or  is  it  Mr.  Fox? J  An' 
*  Umph,  whar  does  you  buy  yo'  'fumery,  Mr. 
Fox?'  '  Is  you  an*  Mr.  Polecat  gone  pardners  in 
de  parfume  bizness? '  ontell  he  was  'shamed  to  look 
at  his  own  face  when  he  bent  down  his  haid  to  lap 
a  drink  in  still  water. 

"Atter  while  Mr.   Fox  took  to  dodgin'  ev'y 


How  Mr.  Fox  Fooled  Himself          133 

critter  dat  corned  along  instid  o'  tryin'  to  play  any 
mo'  o'  his  smart  tricks  on  'um. 

"  You  knows  it  hurts  a  wile  varmint  wusser  to 
be  laffed  at  an'  made  a  fool  of  dan  to  be  badly 
wownded.  Dey  kin  lick  de  pain'  out  of  a  wownd 
long  befo'  dey  kin  ease  de  mis'ry  o*  hurt  f eelin's. 

"  It's  de  same  wid  a  tame  dumb  critter.  Ef  you 
don't  b'leeve  it,  des'  look  any  hones'  dawg  straight 
in  de  face  an'  snicker  an'  laff  at  him  a  little  while ; 
an'  see  if  he  won't  drap  his  haid,  lower  his  ears, 
tuck  his  tail  betwixt  his  laigs  an'  sneak  away  an' 
bide  somewhars  ontell  his  f  eelin's  is  eased. 

"  But  de  Moon's  done  clambed  half  way  up  de 
sky,  widout  crossin'  a  cloud.  It's  gwine  to  be  cl'ar 
wedder  to-morrow,  and  for  a  week  atterwards. 
Good  night,  Little  Mahster." 


X 

?i>oU)  i«x\  a»nv  <£ot  W\* 


Birdland 
Boy  had  in- 
vited three  of 
his  schoolmates  to  spend 
^Friday  night  and  their 
;  Saturday  holiday  with 
him.  The  principal 
k  event  of  that  visit  was 
to  be  the  first  night- 
coon-hunt  of  their  lives.  The  young  Doctor  of  the 
vicinity  had  been  asked  to  join  in  that  hunt,  to  the 
joy  of  all  the  juvenile  members  of  the  party,  and 
he  had  promised  to  come  surely,  if  he  could, 
and  take  them  a  long  way  in  the  woods.  In  the 
November  dusk  the  four  boys  were  gathered  near 

the  front  steps  of  the  Birdland  house  impatiently 
134 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Striped  Face     135 

waiting  for  the  coming  of  their  grown-up  friend. 
Ready  for  rough  and  rugged  walking  in  the  woods, 
they  all  wore  their  oldest  clothes  and  thickest 
boots,  and  had  armed  themselves  with  the  deadliest 
sticks  they  could  find  in  the  growth  of  the  mansion 
grounds. 

At  last  the  young  Doctor  rode  up,  wearing  his 
corduroy  shooting  clothes  and  carrying  a  lovely 
little  .22  calibre  rifle.  Although  it  looked  like  a 
pretty  toy,  that  weapon  could  drive  the  bullet  of 
one  of  its  longer  cartridges  clean  through  a  large 
buck. 

In  their  wild  state  of  excitement  over  their  com- 
ing night-adventure  in  the  woods  the  boys  could 
scarcely  wait  for  their  grown  companion  to  greet 
the  other  members  of  the  household;  they  consid- 
ered his  lively  chat  with  the  two  ladies  and  the 
Birdland  Girl  a  useless  waste  of  very  valuable 
time,  and  the  foolish  lingering  at  the  supper-table 
worse  extravagance  in  the  same  line.  When  those 
vexatious  delays  ended  they  led,  or  rather  pulled, 
him  out  of  doors. 

At  the  rear  of  the  mansion  they  were  joined  by 


136     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

the  mulatto  yard-stabler,  who  cared  for  the  several 
horses  used  by  the  family  members.  That  yellow 
hostler  bore  on  his  shoulder  a  long-handled  but  un- 
lighted  petroleum  torch,  one  of  many  belonging 
to  the  great  canesheds  of  the  sugar  factory,  which 
worked  all  night  as  well  as  in  the  daytime.  Then 
they  all  went  out  to  the  Negro  Quarters  to  get  old 
Jason  with  his  pack  of  numerous  cur-dogs,  to  trail, 
chase  and  tree  the  foredoomed  coons.  As  the  old 
hunter  of  varmints  had  been  duly  notified  that  he, 
specially,  would  be  needed  on  this  proposed  hunt, 
they  found  him  at  home  all  ready  and  waiting  for 
them  in  the  midst  of  his  dogs. 

When  the  noise  of  the  hostile  yet  harmless  bark- 
ing, with  which  the  numerous  curs  of  the  Negro 
Quarters  greeted  the  strangers,  had  been  sternly 
hushed  by  their  owner  he  led  the  way  to  and  down 
the  forest  road.  There,  turning  to  the  right,  he 
headed  the  party,  prodding  the  ground  with  his 
hunting-club  in  time  with  the  brisk  gait  of  his  legs. 
Holding  back  their  pace  to  suit  that  of  their  mas- 
ter, his  pack  was  strung  out  before  him  in  a  long 
straggling  file.  The  group  of  white  hunters 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Striped  Face     137 

closely  followed  the  black  leader;  and,  in  con- 
venient talking  distance,  the  yellow  bearer  of  the 
unlighted  torch  brought  up  the  rear. 

As  they  walked  rapidly  toward  the  woods,  on  a 
road  sufficiently  lighted  for  travel  by  the  bright 
starlight,  only,  the  young  sportsmen  shortened  the 
way  with  much  gay  talk  and  many  jokes;  the 
veteran  black  hunter  close  ahead  of  them  spoke 
only  to  his  dogs,  muttering  admonitions  and  re- 
proaches to  various  individual  members  of  his 
pack,  calling  each  by  name  as  he  did  so;  the 
mulatto  torch-bearer,  who  was  gifted  with  only  the 
"  Gombo-speech  "  of  the  half -negro  native  of  the 
Creole  country,  was  voluble  with  his  patois  when- 
ever he  could  find  a  willing  listener. 

In  due  time  they  reached  the  forest  and  turned 
down  a  rough  and  stumpy  road,  whence  many  a 
rougher  and  stumpier  branch,  opened  by  wood- 
cutters, penetrated  into  the  depths  of  the  woods. 
In  the  open  fields  the  smooth  wagon  road,  in  the 
starlight,  had  been  visible  enough  for  rapid  walk- 
ing. Every  road  and  pathway  in  the  woods  lay 
under  black  darkness.  Lighting  the  torch  for  bet- 


138     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

ter  progress  would  not  do,  as  its  bright  glare  in 
continual  motion,  blinded  the  eyes  and  made  the 
shadows  about  the  moving  feet  blacker. 

The  Doctor  advised  the  boys  to  follow  his  lead 
as  closely  as  possible;  he  claimed  that  as  he  had 
hunted  big  black  bears,  and  chased  fierce  spotted 
lynxes  or  wildcats  through  those  woods  so  often  he 
could  find  his  way  over  every  foot  of  them  in  the 
blackest  night.  Having  heard  other  authentic 
tales  of  the  hunting  and  killing  of  bears,  and  even 
of  two  or  three  panthers,  or  cougars,  in  these  very 
same  big  woods,  the  boys  followed  the  Doctor's 
advice  strictly  and  stuck  very,  very  close  to  him. 

When  the  tireless  old  black  hunter  decided  that 
they  were  far  enough  in  the  woods  for  good  hunt- 
ing he  harked  on  his  dogs;  and  they  quickly  scat- 
terd  about,  snuffing  over  the  fallen  leaves  for  a 
fresh  trail,  while  the  men  and  boy  hunters  sat  on 
stumps  and  spreading  roots  to  wait  for  the  rinding 
of  game. 

The  forest  was  almost  solemnly  still,  except  for 
the  pattering  and  rustling  of  the  receding  dogs; 
but  soon  even  that  died  away  in  the  pitch-dark  dis- 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Striped  Face     139 

tance.  Then  suddenly  sounded  a  hoarse  "  Who- 
who,  who-who-who-ah ; "  and,  after  that  signal 
hoot  from  a  big  forest  owl,  a  weird  concert  of 
"  who-who's  "  and  "  who-who-who-ah's  "  rose  and 
echoed  in  the  woods  near  and  far. 

That  stopped,  and  the  silence  was  deeper  for  its 
ending,  when  a  great  Laughing-Owl  screamed, 
like  a  loose  maniac,  "Hee-yahl  —  Hee-yah!  — 
Hee-yah!  —  Hee-yah!"  as  if  he  were  overcome 
with  mirth  at  the  idea  of  his  lesser  kindred  of 
the  forest  considering  their  recent  hooting  as 
music. 

At  that  appalling  scream  of  the  biggest  night- 
bird,  the  smallest  of  the  boy  hunters  shivered  in  his 
shoes  and  exclaimed:  "Whew!  that  awful  laugh- 
ing thing  in  the  dark  woods  gave  me  a  kind  of 
foot-asleep  feeling  to  the  top  of  my  head." 

The  human  laughter  following  that  juvenile 
exclamation  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden  burst  of 
barking  from  three  or  four  dogs  that  had  stumbled 
on  game;  the  full  cur-chorus  quickly  joined  in; 
and,  as  the  running  pack  broke  away  in  a  rapid 
zigzag  chase,  Uncle  Jason  proudly  boasted: 


140     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  Dey's  sho'ly  got  Mr.  Coon  a  gwine  now." 

After  a  sharp  and  short  run  the  noisier  station- 
ary barking  and  whining  of  the  mongrel  pursuers 
showed  that  "  Mr.  Coon,"  or  some  other  varmint, 
had  been  treed.  Then  the  men,  with  the  boys  very 
close  behind,  ran  and  scrambled  the  best  they  could 
through  thick  underbrush  and  tangled  vines 
through  the  dark  woods. 

When  they  reached  the  waiting  dogs  they  found 
them  frantically  barking  and  clawing  the  trunk  of 
a  tall  bitter-nut  hickory.  In  the  book  way  those 
coon-hunters  should  have  had  a  handy  ax  with 
them  to  cut  down  a  valuable  tree  merely  to  catch  a 
coon.  But,  as  these  were  real  hunters,  who  were 
wise  enough  to  get  their  coon  without  wasting  a 
large  tree,  and  too  merciful  to  have  their  game, 
half -stunned  by  a  hard  tumble  to  the  ground,  tor- 
tured and  torn  to  death  by  a  dozen  rending  dogs, 
they  carried  no  ax  and  spared  the  tree. 

The  petroleum  torch  was  lighted  for  the  first 
time,  and  it  flared  forth  upward  brilliantly  light- 
ing the  whole  tree.  From  the  top-crotch  of  the 
tree  gleamed  down,  with  reflected  light  from  the 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Striped  Face     141 

flaming  torch  below,  two  glowing  beads  like  bright 
red  coals  of  fire.  With  the  torch  near  him  station- 
ary and  furnishing  all  the  steady  light  he  needed 
to  see  the  fine  sights  of  his  little  rifle,  the  Doctor 
carefully  aimed  it  at  the  tiny  fire-balls  far  above. 
.At  the  light  crack  of  the  poised  weapon  a  fat  old 
coon  came  falling  and  bouncing  through  the 
branches  to  the  ground  with  a  fatal  hole  bored 
through  its  head  above  the  eyes. 

The  coon  was  dead  when  it  struck  the  ground; 
nevertheless  the  dogs  pounced  on  it  for  one  vin- 
dictive bite  and  shake.  Beating  them  off,  and  with 
much  wordy  abuse  to  the  last  of  them  to  let  go, 
Uncle  Jason  picked  up  the  "  fine  varmint,"  as  he 
promptly  pronounced  it,  fastened  its  hindlegs  to- 
gether, shoved  his  hunting-club  between  them  and 
slung  it  over  his  shoulder  in  the  unvarying  way  of 
the  veteran  "  varmint-hunter."  While  doing  these 
things  he  chuckled  with  joy  at  the  slain  coon's 
large  size  and  extra  fatness.  When  he  had 
finished  fixing  the  coon  for  convenient  carrying 
the  old  man  gazed  with  admiring  wonder  at  that 
little  gun,  shorter  and  more  slender  than  his  hunt- 


142     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

ing-club,  which  could  bring  down  a  treed  coon  so 
much  more  quickly  and  easily  than  the  slow  and 
toilsome  ax. 

When  the  first  coon  was  thus  captured  the 
hunters  went  back  to  the  road  they  had  recently 
left.  Going  down  that  still  deeper  in  the  woods, 
the  dogs  were  started  on  another  hunt,  and  the 
party  again  rested  on  other  natural  rustic  seats. 
The  mulatto  torch-bearer,  looking  at  the  dead  coon 
which  Uncle  Jason  had  happened  to  lay  on  the 
ground  very  near  him,  took  advantage  of  this  in- 
terval of  rest  to  observe  that  this  hunt  reminded 
him  of  that  tale  about  Mr.  Wilecat  asking  Mr. 
Coon  to  dinner  and  Mr.  Coon  returning  the  com- 
pliment. Delighted  to  find  that  he  had  four  ready 
young  auditors  for  such  talk  he  broke  abruptly 
into  the  following  story: 

"  One  tarn,  'way  back,  w'en  Mr.  Wilecat  go 
walk  in  de  wood,  after  one  fine  dinner  an*  one  good 
nap,  w'ich  make  him  full  wid  good  humor,  he  meet 
op  wid  Mr.  Coon,  an'  he  say: 

" '  Howdy,  Mr.  Coon,  I  glad  to  see  you,  yas; ' 
an',  w'en  dey  done  shake  han',  he  hax:  '  How  you 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Striped  Face     143 

lak  to  come  eat  dinner  wid  me  to-morrow,  Mr. 
Coon? ' 

"  Mr.  Coon  he  look'  much  please'  an'  he  say 
back:  *  T'ank  you,  Mr.  Wilecat,  I  lak  dat  fine,  me.' 

"Den  Mr.  Wilecat  he  say:  'Well,  ajeh, 
good-by,  my  good  frien',  I  mus'  go  hunt  some  sup' 
now;  but  be  sho'  you  come  to  my  dinner,  I  goin' 
to  give  you  fine  one,  yas.' 

"  Mr.  Coon,  he,  too,  say  ajeh  (adieu)  ;  an'  Mr. 
Wilecat  he  go  off,  pat-pat-pat,  to  look  for  some 
grub,  an'  Mr.  Coon  he  go  off,  rack-rack-rack,  to 
his  house  in  de  holler  tree  by  de  bayou. 

"  De  nex'  day,  befo'  dinner-tarn,  Mr.  Coon  he 
step  down  to  de  bayou  befo'  his  house,  he  wash  his 
face  an'  han'  clean,  he  bresh  his  coat  nice,  den  he 
go,  rack-rack-rack,  much  hongree  to  Mr.  Wilecat' 
house.  W'en  he  knock  on  de  do'  Mr.  Wilecat,  he, 
open  it  wide,  an'  he  say: 

" '  Walk  in,  Mr.  Coon,  I  glad  to  see  you  look' 
so  well,  you  look  as  fine  as  dis  fine  wedder,  yas; 
walk  in  an'  take  a  seat;  we  goin'  to  have  dinner 
soon.' 

"  Den  dey  set  down  in  de  house  to  talk  till  din- 


144    Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

ner  be  ready ;  an'  w'en  dat  tarn  come  dey  go  quick 
to  de  table  an'  take  dey  place. 

"  Fus*  dey  has  some  Cooter-Gombo,  lak  tarri- 
pin-soup  —  you  know  dat  Cooter  w'at  fall  of  de 
lawg  floatin'  in  de  water  w'en  you  but  looks  at  him 
aslip  in  de  sun.  Now,  Mr.  Coon  he  don't  like 
Cooter  raw  or  cook;  he  hate  de  sight  or  de  smell 
of  Cooter.  One  tarn,  w'en  he  was  liT  young  Coon, 
full  wid  play  lak  one  boy,  he  go  swim  in  de  bayou 
for  fun.  Den  one  big  Cooter  bite  him  hard  an' 
hurt  him  bad,  yas ;  an*  he  mos'  die.  Since  dat  tarn 
all  de  Coon  familee  is  enemy  wid  all  de  Cooter 
familee.  Mr.  Wilecat  he  know  all  dat  well,  him, 
w'en  he  make  dat  fine  Cooter-Gombo ;  but  he  say : 

"'  Wat!  —  you  don't  lak  Cooter-Gombo,  Mr. 
Coon?  Well,  I  feel  sorry,  me,  but  dis  Gombo  so 
good  I  kin  eat  it  all,  myse'f .' 

"  When  he  finish  dat  Gombo,  Mr.  Wilecat  wipe 
his  mouf  wid  his  paw,  an'  he  say :  *  Now  here  come 
one  fine  Possum-Fricassee  wid  plentee  red  pepper 
an'  onion:  —  Phew!  —  ain't  dat  Possum-Fricassee 
good? '  he  say  sniffin'  over  it  loud  wid  his  nose. 

"  Mr.   Coon  he  been  close  neighbor  an'  good 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Striped  Face     145 

frien'  wid  Mr.  Possum  sence  dey  was  small  boy  an' 
run  about  an'  play  togedder  on  de  grass  an'  in  de 
bush'.  So  w'en  he  see  dat  Possum  in  fricassee  he 
sigh  lak  he  sick  bad  an'  he  say: 

"  *  Please  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Wilecat,  but  I  been 
take'  sick  sudden,  an'  I  fil  too  bad  to  eat  any  din- 
ner to-day.' 

"  '  Wat ! '  says  Mr.  Wilecat.  '  You  can't  eat 
Possum-Fricassee?  Well,  you  mus'  be  sick  sho' 
'nough;  but  I  b'leeve  I  kin  eat  for  you  an'  for  me.' 
Wid  dat  he  finish  all  de  dinner  hese'f ;  den  he  wipe' 
his  whisker'  on  his  paw'  an'  pick  his  teet'  wid  his 
claw'. 

"  Den  Mr.  Coon,  he  say  he  fil  well  enough  to  go 
home,  an'  he  invite  Mr.  Wilecat  to  come  eat  dinner 
wid  him  to-morrow;  an'  Mr.  Wilecat,  he  say  yas, 
he  be  glad  to  do  dat.  Den  Mr.  Coon,  he  say 
'  ajeh; '  an'  w'en  he  git  out  o'  Mr.  Wilecat'  sight 
in  de  wood,  he  go,  rack-rack-rack,  like  he  never 
been  sick  befo'. 

"  W'en  Mr.  Coon,  he  git  home,  he  go  quick  to 
de  bayou  an'  in  de  water  where  some  bullresh' 
grow  tall  an'  t'ick;  he  pull  plentee  dose  long  an' 


146    Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

strong  bullresh',  an'  he  go  back  on  de  bank  an'  he 
make  him  one  big  basket  wid  dose  bullresh'.  Den 
he  ketch  dose  red  crawfish  wid  big  sharp  claw  w'at 
pinch  so  hard  dey  cuts  yo'  finger  to  de  bone. 
Wen  dat  basket  was  half  full  wid  dose  crawfish 
he  tie  it  in  de  water  to  de  bank,  an'  he  grin  wid  all 
his  teet',  when  he  go  to  de  house  to  eat  a  good  sup- 
per an*  go  to  bed. 

"  De  nex'  day  Mr.  Wilecat,  he  comb'  out  his 
long  whisker'  wid  his  claw',  he  lick  his  spotted  coat 
clean  wid  his  tongue,  an'  den  he  trot  thew  de  wood' 
to  Mr.  Coon's  dinner. 

"  Mr.  Coon,  he  meet  Mr.  Wilecat  at  his  do' 
befo'  he  knock',  an'  he  ax  him  to  sit  down  till  din- 
ner-tarn. Den  he  step  to  de  bayou  an'  bring  back 
dat  basket  wid  dose  big,  mad  crawfish,  w'at  was  all 
clackin*  an'  clashin*  dey  long  sharp  claw'.  Wen 
he  set  dat  basket  down  befo'  Mr.  Wilecat  he  tell 
him:  'Help  yo'se'f  to  de  fus'  co'se,  Mr.  Wilecat, 
an*  a  better  one  is  cominV 

"Den  Mr.  Coon  he  pick  up  one  crawfish  wid 
his  han',  w'at  has  finger'  lak  yo'  han',  only  his  ban' 
is  hard  lak  harness-ledder,  too  tough  for  dose 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Striped  Face     147 

crawfish  claw'  to  cut.  He  wash  dat  crawfish  in 
some  water  by  de  basket,  he  eat  op  dat  crawfish 
an'  smack  his  mouf  lak  it  was  fine,  yas;  an'  you 
know,  Mr.  Coon  t'ink  crawfish  de  bes'  o'  grub. 

"  Mr.  Wilecat  he  could  not  use  his  foot  for  one 
han'  lak  Mr.  Coon,  wid  his  toe'  too  short  for 
finger' ;  so  Mr.  Coon  tell  him  to  take  one  bunch  o' 
crawfish  at  a  tarn  wid  his  long  teet'.  Den  Mr. 
Wilecat,  he  stick  his  mouf  down  dip  in  de  basket 
to  git  plenty  crawfish  at  once.  Dose  crawfish  grab 
his  big  head  wid  dey  sharp,  crooked  claw';  dey 
hook  in  his  fat  chik  an'  sof  lip  an'  eye-lid  an'  to 
his  ear';  an'  dey  hoi'  on  an'  cut  dip  till  de  blood 
run  all  over  Mr.  Wilecat'  roun'  face. 

"  W'en  Mr.  Wilecat  he  juk  back  his  head  out 
dat  basket  he  look'  terreeble,  yas,  wid  dose  red 
crawfish  hangin'  all  over  his  face.  He  holler,  he 
roll  all  over  de  groun' ;  he  smash  dose  crawfish  wid 
his  two  fo'paw'  till  dey  was  all  kill'  an'  knock'  off 
his  face.  Den  he  git  op  an'  he  ax  Mr.  Coon: 

"  *  W'at  kind  o'  dinner  is  dis  to  give  to  one  re- 
spectab'  Wilecat? ' 

"  Mr.  Coon,  who  been  git  close  to  de  bayou  w'en 


148     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Mr.  Wilecat  was  fightin*  de  crawfish  f 'om  his  face, 
answer: 

'  Wat  kind  o'  manners  was  dem  to  stick  yo' 
mouf  in  de  dish  instid  of  yo'  han'  w'en  you  eats 
wid  a  respectab'  Coon? ' 

"  Dat  make  Mr.  Wilecat  so  mad  he  jomp  quick 
at  Mr.  Coon  to  kill  him  dead.  But  Mr.  Coon  he 
jomp  in  de  bayou;  he  dive  dip  an'  come  op  in  de 
middle  an'  he  holler: 

" '  Oh,  Mr.  Wilecat,  how  did  you  lak  dat  secon' 
co'se  o'  my  fine  dinner,  Wilecat  head  wid  crawfish 
trimmin's  ? ' 

"  At  dat  Mr.  Wilecat  git  so  redhot  mad  he  start 
to  jomp  in  de  bayou  to  ketch  Mr.  Coon  an'  kill  him 
in  de  water;  but  Mr.  Coon  he  dive  dip  once  mo' 
an'  he  come  up  in  de  t'ick  bullresh,  where  he  hide 
laughin'  inside  hese'f  while  Mr.  Wilecat  stop'  on 
de  bank  to  wash  his  bloody  face  to  see  de  way  bet- 
ter goin*  home  in  de  woods.  But  dose  stripe  an' 
dose  scar  dem  crawfish  make  dat  tarn  on  Mr.  Wile- 
cat's  face  stay  dere  yit,  yas!" 

Very  soon  after  the  conclusion  of  the  torch- 
bearer's  tale  a  much  less  cunning  coon  than  its 


"  '  BUT  MR.  COON  HE  JOMP  IN  DE  BAYOU. 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Got  His  Striped  Face     149 

hero  was  trailed,  treed  and  shot ;  and,  well  satisfied 
with  their  night's  sport,  the  hunters  all  turned 
homeward. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  worn-out  young- 
sters reached  home,  where  they  sleepily  undressed 
and  tumbled  into  bed,  to  listen  again  to  the  hoot- 
ing of  owls  and  the  barking  of  dogs  in  boyhood's 
land  of  dreams. 


XI 


I 


the  afternoons 
of  the  latter  part 
of  the  Spring  and 
the  Summer,  when  the 
weather  was  too  warm  for 
him  to  enjoy  his  favorite 
sports  and  active  exer- 
cises, the  Birdland  Boy  would  ramble  out  to  the 
levee,  which  was  only  about  two  hundred  yards 
distant  in  front  of  the  residence;  and  there  he 
would  lie  at  full  length  resting  on  the  soft  turf 
covering  the  top  of  that  earthen  embankment,  and 
watching  with  keen  interest  the  tawny  currents  of 
the  Mississippi  river  as  they  rolled  southeastward 
to  the  sea,  and  the  sights  connected  with  the  great 
stream. 
The  drift  floating  down  from  the  forests  of  the 

150 


Who  Belled  Mr.  Buzzard?  151 

far-off  mountainsides,  the  flocks  of  wheeling, 
screaming  and  darting  white  and  grey  gulls  flying 
back  and  forth  above  its  wide  waters,  the  light  row- 
boats  creeping  close  along  the  shore  on  its 
smoother  eddies,  the  white-sailed  luggers  gliding 
rapidly  down  or  slowly  up  its  surface,  and  at  rarer 
intervals,  a  great  puffing  steamboat,  passing  with 
curling  foam  dashed  from  her  bows  and  crested 
waves  following  far  astern  in  her  wake,  all  carried 
their  different  degrees  of  interest  for  the  watching 
boy. 

But  far  above  all  such  objects  that  caught  his 
attention  were  the  rushing,  river-pounding  white 
steamboats.  The  swarm  of  black  roustabouts 
gathered  on  the  lower  or  freight-deck  between  the 
jackstaff  and  the  swinging  stages,  the  passengers 
in  groups  within  the  side-guards  and  on  the  prom- 
enade deck,  and  the  captain  standing  in  solitary 
grandeur  on  the  front  of  the  hurricane  deck,  all 
appeared  to  the  boy  ashore  as  if  they  might  belong 
to  some  different  and  more  lively  world  than  that 
which  contained  the  quiet  sugar  plantations  on  the 
banks  of  the  big  and  bustling  river.  While  he  gazed 


152     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

with  more  or  less  interest  at  the  rapidly  passing 
crews  and  passengers  of  those  boats  his  admiration 
was  centred  on  the  single  imperious  figure  of  the 
commander  standing  well  to  the  fore  on  the  hur- 
ricane deck,  and  his  highest  boyish  ambition  was 
that  he  might  some  day  grow  to  be  as  great  a  man 
as  the  captain  of  a  Mississippi  river  steamboat. 

If  there  were  no  steamboats  in  sight  nor  their 
smokes  approaching  around  the  nearer  bends, 
when  the  boy  became  tired  of  looking  at  the  float- 
ing drift  and  fancying  how  very  far  it  might  have 
travelled,  or  of  watching  the  wheeling  gulls  and 
the  white  lugsails,  he  would  sometimes  lie  on  his 
back  and  intently  watch  the  passing  turkey-buz- 
zards, trying  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  larger 
part  of  their  flight,  which  is  a  problem  that  has 
puzzled  many  older  heads.  Those  black  pirates  of 
the  air  were  continually  sailing  back  and  forth 
over  the  edge  of  the  river  seeking  prizes  from  the 
chance  wreckage  of  death  stranded  on  its  shores; 
any  kind  of  grounded  "  floater  "  was  their  prey. 

When  the  boy  lay  perfectly  still,  with  his  eyes 
closed  to  slits  over  all  but  their  peering  pupils,  the 


Who  Belled  Mr.  Buzzard?  153 

passing  vultures  appeared  to  take  a  very  deep  in- 
terest in  him.  Then  they  would  fly  very  low  and 
slowly  and  near  enough  to  learn  if  he  were  merely 
taking  a  short  nap  or  had  gone  to  sleep  for  good. 
At  times,  when  he  lay  thus  they  came  so  close  to  him 
that  he  beheld  the  hopeful  beam  in  their  hungry 
eyes  and  the  wrinkles  in  their  bald  redheads,  and 
he  considered  that  he  would  be  well  repaid  for  his 
playing  'possum  to  deceive  the  turkey-buzzards  if 
he  could  only  manage  to  learn  how  they  could  sail 
a  mile  or  more  in  level  flight  dead  against  the  wind 
without  a  single  beat,  flap,  or  other  visible  move- 
ments of  their  wide-spread  wings.  He  had  seen 
the  frigate  birds  sailing  over  the  beaches  and  surf 
of  Barataria  Island,  and  only  them,  capable  of  the 
same  manner  of  flight.  But  he  had  much  better 
opportunities  for  studying  the  buzzard  flight  at 
close  range,  and  he  tried  hard  to  make  the  most  of 
them. 

After  looking  closely  at  the  buzzards  many, 
many  times  he  saw,  or  fancied,  that  as  they  sailed 
slowly  by  him  with  outstretched  wings,  they  —  or 
perhaps  the  wind  did  it  —  gave  a  twisting  half- 


154     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

turn  to  each  of  the  long  feathers  of  their  unmov- 
ing  wings.  That  twisting  half -turn  appeared  to 
him  exactly  like  the  motion  with  which  a  boatman 
handles  his  continually  submerged  oar-blade  over 
the  stern  of  his  skiff  while  he  "  sculls  "  that  craft 
through  the  water.  Thus  an  expert  boatman  can 
"  scull "  a  skiff  with  a  single  submerged  oar  al- 
most as  fast  as  he  can  row  it  with  a  pair  of  oars, 
alternately  dipped  in  the  water  and  lifted  in  the 
air  from  the  side  rowlocks.  The  boy,  who  had 
often  been  sculled  along  in  skiff-rides  on  the 
bayous  by  black  boatmen,  felt  almost  sure  at  last, 
as  he  saw  innumerable  buzzards  sailing  against  the 
wind,  that  they  also  sculled  their  way  in  the  air 
with  their  twisting  feathers. 

'But  there  came  a  day  when  one  of  the  passing 
turkey-buzzards  furnished  him  far  more  enter- 
tainment than  any  of  his  attempts  to  solve  the 
mystery  of  their  level  sailing  flight.  One  after- 
noon while  he  was  lying  on  his  back,  playing  'pos- 
sum to  entice  near  him  the  first  of  the  vultures  that 
happened  to  come  along,  he  suddenly  heard  the 
tinkling  of  a  sheep-bell.  Instead  of  coming  from 


Who  Belled  Mr.  Buzzard?  155 

the  road,  which  ran  along  the  inner  base  of  the 
levee,  the  merry  music  of  that  bell  came  from  the 
air,  increasing  with  the  approach  of  a  low-flying 
buzzard,  and  sounding  its  loudest  as  that  great 
bird  sailed  directly  over  the  head  of  the  wide-eyed, 
amazed  boy  and  went  its  way  with  a  disappointed 
look. 

Wonder  of  wonders,  the  buzzard  himself  wore 
the  bell!  The  Birdland  Boy  saw  that  bell  plainly 
hanging  to  Mr.  Buzzard's  neck,  and  heard  it  as 
well  as  if  he  had  rung  it  with  his  own  right  hand. 
Astonished  and  delighted,  as  any  other  boy  would 
have  been,  at  the  sight  of  that  big  bird  of  evil  bear- 
ing a  merry  bell,  the  boy  sprang  to  his  feet  as  the 
belled  Buzzard  passed  over  him,  jumped  up  and 
down  with  joyous  excitement,  and  hastened  Mr. 
Buzzard's  retreat  with  his  yells  and  hurras  of 
greeting  and  farewell  so  that  the  air  in  the  bird's 
wake  tinkled  with  a  continuous  jingle. 

As  the  boy  told  this  marvelous  event  to  the  as- 
sembled family  later  the  common  wonder  was: 
Who  belled  Mr.  Buzzard? 

It  would  be  too  long  a  story  to  tell  how  that  Mr. 


156     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Buzzard  commenced  his  sinful  career  in  this  world, 
and  of  all  the  very  wicked  things  he  had  done ;  but 
there  may  be  time  and  space  to  mention  a  few  of 
his  numerous  misdeeds  and  to  explain  how  he  won 
and  wore  his  brazen  bell. 

The  Mr.  Buzzard  of  this  tale  was  one  of  a  large 
flock  of  vultures  of  the  turkey  name  and  resem- 
blance that  roosted  on  the  skeleton  limbs  of  an 
enormous  liveoak  tree  which  had  been  killed  by 
lightning  long  since  in  the  heart  of  the  Birdland 
forest.  Once,  in  one  of  his  numerous  rides  in  the 
woods  with  Uncle  Jason,  the  Birdland  Boy  had 
passed  that  Buzzard-Roost-tree  in  the  deepening 
twilight  as  they  were  returning  home.  With  its 
white,  leafless  and  barkless  limbs  covered  with  the 
great  birds,  whose  heads  were  hidden  in  their  black 
body-feathers,  the  tree  looked  to  him  as  if  it  bore 
an  overcrop  of  black  fruit  of  fabulous  dimensions. 

In  the  mornings,  when  Mr.  Buzzard  and  his  fel- 
low vultures  woke  up,  they  would  stretch  their  red 
necks  toward  each  other,  consult  with  voices 
sounding  like  thick  short  hisses  about  their  plans 
for  the  day,  sharpen  their  keen  beaks  on  their  hard, 


Who  Belled  Mr.  Buzzard?  157 

barkless  roosting  limbs,  and  then,  spreading  their 
black  sails,  go  cruising  over  Louisiana  and  the 
three  States  bordering  it,  to  seek  their  dead  prizes 
or  their  living  prey.  A  turkey-buzzard  in  good 
health  can  soar  over  three  or  four  States  in  a  day 
quite  as  easily  as  a  healthy  country  boy  in  his  teens 
can  stroll  over  half  a  dozen  farms,  or  three  or  four 
large  plantations  in  a  day's  hunting. 

Mr.  Buzzard  usually  preferred  meals  quite  dead, 
—  very  dead,  in  fact ;  but  if  he  could  not  find  them 
in  that  most  desirable  form  he  was  more  than  will- 
ing to  take  them  alive  in  the  shape  of  any  helpless 
young  animal  he  could  find,  when  men  or  their 
mothers  were  not  near  enough  to  guard  them. 

This  cruel  pirate  of  the  air  also  preyed  on  crip- 
pled, or  freshly  killed  game  fallen  beyond  the  fatal 
range  of  the  guns  of  the  hunters  whom  he  robbed. 
In  fact,  he  commenced  his  offenses  against  human- 
folk  by  stealing  the  first  mallard  ever  killed  by  a 
happy  boy  hunter  on  his  first  duck  hunt.  Full  of 
joy  and  pride  as  he  saw  that  "  greenhead  "  fall 
dead  to  his  shot,  after  flying  a  little  farther  from 
him,  and  turn  breast  upward  in  a  shallow  bayou, 


158     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

the  boy  pushed  his  little  boat  out  of  his  "  blind  "  to 
go  after  his  game;  but,  before  he  dipped  his  pad- 
dle in  the  water,  the  very  Mr.  Buzzard  of  this 
story  swooped  down  on  the  dead  drake,  grasped  it 
for  himself,  and  flew  far  away  with  it,  only  slightly 
stunned  by  a  few  spent  pellets  of  the  two  loads  of 
shot  angrily  sent  after  him.  Any  boy  truly  fond 
of  duck-shooting  can  appreciate  how  heart-break- 
ing it  was  to  that  boy  hunter  to  have  been  thus 
robbed  of  such  a  prize. 

Then,  before  he  was  even  suspected  of  possess- 
ing a  fondness  for  fresh  pork,  the  same  Mr.  Buz- 
zard took,  in  successive  days,  several  little  living 
pigs  from  a  hog-ranch  in  Texas,  devouring  them 
in  their  open  pen.  For  that  crime  a  dozen  or  more 
of  his  fellow-pirates  fell  to  the  gun  of  the  enraged 
ranchman  who  had  thus  been  robbed,  and  who 
hotly  expressed  the  hope  that  there  was  a  place  of 
future  punishment  for  wicked  buzzards  as  well  as 
for  sinful  men.  But  in  this  instance  the  guilty  pig- 
stealer  escaped. 

The  next  cruel  crime  of  this  Mr.  Buzzard  was 
the  wanton  massacre  in  Mississippi  of  an  entire 


Who  Belled  Mr.  Buzzard?  159 

litter  of  beautiful  little  setter  puppies  of  a  famous 
breed,  during  the  short  absence  of  their  mother, 
who  had  followed  her  master  on  his  morning 
rounds  over  the  fields.  The  black  pirate  again  es- 
caped scot-free  before  a  handy  shotgun  could  be 
secured  to  finish  his  dark  career,  although  he  was 
caught  red-beaked  by  the  owner  of  the  Gladstone 
puppies  at  the  scene  of  their  atrocious  murder. 
Although  the  feathered  glutton  could  devour  but 
one  of  his  victims  he  had  slain  them  all  in  fiendish 
cruelty. 

Soon  after  that,  as  Mr.  Buzzard  was  circling 
and  sailing  over  a  sheep-pasture  in  Arkansas,  he 
beheld  a  large  flock  of  sheep  far  beneath  him.  Be- 
hind the  flock  was  a  single  lagging  ewe  followed 
by  a  feeble  newly-born  lamb.  Before  the  guard- 
ing shepherd  boy  and  his  dog  could  come  to  the 
rescue  Mr.  Buzzard  swooped  down  hawk-fashion, 
with  half-closed,  humming  wings,  beat  the  bleating 
mother-sheep  away  with  hard  blows  of  his  black 
pinions,  killed  the  defenseless  lamb  with  his  foul 
beak  as  quickly  as  an  Eagle  could  have  done  it, 
and  gobbled  down  a  good  part  of  it  before  his  din- 


160     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

ner  was  interrupted  and  he  was  driven  away  from 
it  by  the  shouting  boy  and  the  barking  collie  as 
they  rapidly  approached  him. 

The  shepherd  boy,  feeling  sure  that  the  greedy 
robber  would  return  to  his  mutton  when  the  meat 
had  reached  a  riper  flavor,  laid  his  plans  to  capture 
and  punish  the  evil  bird.  Right  on  the  spot,  with 
much  boyish  energy,  he  collected  the  needful  small 
saplings  and  sticks  and  built  a  large  trap,  which 
he  baited  with  the  remains  of  the  murdered 
lamb. 

A  day  or  two  later  Mr.  Buzzard,  who  has  a  long 
memory,  for  the  location  of  meals  at  least,  came 
back  to  finish  his  mutton,  on  his  invisible  path  in 
the  blue  sky.  When  he  alighted  near  the  trap  he 
stopped  a  while,  inspecting  it  with  suspicion  and 
fear,  stretching  his  red  neck  toward  his  recent  prey 
and  looking  at  it  with  hungry  glittering  eyes.  Of 
course  soon  his  greed  became  greater  than  his  fear; 
and  he  stepped  under  the  raised  trap,  grasped  the 
bait  with  his  strong  beak,  gave  it  a  good  tug ;  and 
down  came  the  trap,  and  the  robber  was  a  prisoner! 

From  their  hiding-place  in  a  nearby  thicket  out 


Who  Belled  Mr.  Buzzard?  161 

rushed  the  shepherd  boy  and  his  dog  with  delighted 
whoops  and  barks  to  the  big  trap,  where  Mr.  Buz- 
zard vainly  flapped  and  struggled  in  attempts  to 
get  out.  The  first  thought  of  the  boy  was  to  kill 
the  bird  at  once  and  take  no  risk  of  his  getting 
loose  and  stealing  more  lambs;  but,  on  second 
thought,  he  changed  his  mind.  Most  shepherd 
boys  of  Arkansas  and  everywhere  else  have  plenty 
of  time  on  their  hands  to  give  their  heads  a  fair 
chance  to  think  up  unheard  of  amusements.  Send- 
ing his  collie  to  care  for  the  sheep-flock  the  boy 
stopped  at  the  buzzard-trap  to  devise  some  plan  of 
punishment  for  the  prisoner  which  would  combine 
pleasure  with  profit,  and  be  most  satisfactory  to 
himself  and  most  unsatisfactory  to  Mr.  Buzzard. 

As  he  pondered  over  that  problem,  highly  im- 
portant to  the  boy  and  bird  chiefly  concerned,  a 
happy  idea  suddenly  cleared  his  perplexed  brain. 
Gleefully  crying  out:  "I'll  fix  you  all  right,  all 
right,  old  fellow,  so  you'll  never  come  back  and 
meddle  with  my  sheep  any  more!"  he  ran  all  of 
the  long  way  home  and  back  again,  bringing  an 
extra  sheep-bell  which  was  kept  in  the  house. 


162     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Cutting  the  new  leather  neck-strap  of  that  bell 
to  the  proper  short  length  he  slid  aside  one  of  the 
slats  of  his  trap;  and  when  Mr.  Buzzard  pushed 
his  neck  through  this  wider  opening,  hoping  to  get 
away  at  last,  the  boy  buckled  the  bell  round  the 
wrinkled  naked  neck  until  it  was  more  firmly  at- 
tached to  Mr.  Buzzard  than  he  was  ever  after  to 
the  bell.  Then  the  joyous  youth  kicked  the  jail  to 
pieces  and  turned  loose  the  prisoner. 

Almost  as  joyful  at  being  freed,  Mr.  Buzzard 
sprung  high  from  the  ground  on  leaping  legs  and 
beating  wings,  and  began  to  fly  fast  away  from 
that  hated  spot.  But  sudden  amazement  and 
fright  followed  his  great  joy;  as  the  glad  boy 
shouted  after  him:  "Without  rings  on  your 
ringers  and  bells  on  your  toes  you  shall  have 
music  wherever  you  goes,"  when  he  found  he  was 
taking  away  with  him  the  clanging  jingle  of  gra- 
zing sheep.  At  that  terrifying  noise  so  near  his 
ears  Mr.  Buzzard  flapped  and  fled  as  he  never  had 
flown  before.  He  passed  a  flock  of  wild  geese 
winging  their  southward  flight  over  sixty  miles  an 
hour,  as  if  they  were  merely  hovering  in  the  air. 


HE   PASSED   A    FLOCK   OF   WILD    GEESE   WINGING    THEIR    SOUTHWARD 
FLIGHT." 


Who  Belled  Mr.  Buzzard?  163 

After  many  such  bursts  of  speed  and  wheels  and 
vaults  in  vain  efforts  to  rid  himself  of  that  cease- 
less jangling  melody  of  the  pastures  he  turned 
homeward  at  last. 

When  the  belled  pirate,  with  his  black  sails  set, 
sought  his  distant  haven,  the  plowmen  in  the  fields, 
as  he  passed  over  them,  stopped  their  teams  in 
startled  wonder  to  look  up  and  find  whence  came 
that  bell-ringing  in  the  air,  while  some  timid  and 
superstitious  blackfolk  took  to  the  bush  at  once. 
In  the  villages  and  towns  boys  broke  up  their 
games  to  gaze  at  Mr.  Buzzard  with  his  merry  bell 
and  speed  him  on  his  parting  way  with  perfectly 
rapturous  cheers.  Even  grown  folks  ran  out  from 
their  work  to  look  at  him,  and  then  laughed  at  the 
incongruous  sight  of  a  cruel  vulture  .wearing  the 
bell  of  the  gentlest  and  most  innocent  animal. 

Everywhere  that  Mr.  Buzzard  flew  over  the 
homes  and  haunts  of  men  he  was  hailed  by  joyful 
juvenile  cheers  and  cries  of:  "Who  belled  Mr. 
Buzzard?"  He  was  honored  with  frequent  men- 
tion in  the  village  and  town  papers  of  the  Gulf 
States;  and  it  became  a  matter  of  hot  dispute 


164     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

among  some  of  them  as  to  who  had  belled  that  buz- 
zard and  where  it  was  done? 

The  afterglow  of  the  day  had  been  almost 
blotted  out  by  the  gathering  darkness  when  the 
bird-pirate  with  his  novel  neck-piece  reached  his 
home  port.  As  usual,  the  ghostly-looking  limbs 
of  the  great  skeleton-tree  were  already  crowded  by 
his  fellow-craft  that  had  furled  their  black  sails, 
hidden  their  red  figure  heads,  and  fallen  asleep. 
The  belated  wearer  of  the  bell  sailed  past  the  dead 
oak  with  unflapping  wings,  rounded  to,  swung  up 
against  the  wind  with  shivering  pinions,  dropped 
his  anchor  claws  and  grasped  his  usual  limb. 

At  the  sound  of  that  bell  coming  suddenly  on 
them  in  the  beginning  of  the  night,  all  the  other 
vultures  of  the  flock  woke  up,  stretched  out  their 
tucked-in  necks  and  flapped  up  into  the  air  in  wild 
terror.  Then,  learning  who  was  to  blame  for  that 
startling  noise,  they  pounced  upon  the  bell-ringer 
and  beat  him  away  from  the  roost,  telling  him  that 
they  needed  no  bell  to  summon  them  to  meals. 

Banished  from  the  flock,  Mr.  Buzzard  with  the 
bell  sought  a  solitary  roost  by  night  and  cruised 


Who  Belled  Mr.  Buzzard?  165 

noisily  and  alone  to  look  for  a  living  by  day. 
After  a  year  or  two  of  his  flights  with  that  immov- 
able sheep-bell  along  the  low  shores  of  the  Missis- 
sippi river  and  over  the  hills  and  vales  of  three  or 
four  Gulf  States,  he  was  seen  and  heard  no  more. 

After  missing  the  belled  Buzzard  for  some  time 
the  Birdland  Boy  observed  to  old  Uncle  Jason 
that  he  wondered  what  had  become  of  the  bird? 
The  old  man  meditated  a  little,  then  replied  with 
great  gravity: 

"Well,  I  dunno  'zackly  what's  becomed  o'  him; 
but  I  'spects  Mr.  Buzzard's  wored  out  de  bell  or 
de  bell's  wored  out  Mr.  Buzzard,  maybe." 


XII 


fHv.  2Lgnr  Host  ®te  Hong  Eait 

TN  the  darkest 
hour  of  a  night 
in  the  begin- 
ning of  December  there 
twas  a  violent  rainstorm  at 
Birdland,  after  which  the 
fcwind  changed  to  the 
North  and  the  weather  became  clear  and  cold.  In 
the  thick  of  that  tempest,  when  all  of  the  planta- 
tion dogs  had  been  driven  to  shelter  under  sheds 
and  cabin  floors  in  the  Negro  Quarters,  a  Lynx 
had  raided  the  turkey-roost  back  of  the  mansion 
grounds  and  carried  off  the  finest  gobbler  of  the 
flock.  That  lost  turkey  was  the  most  highly 
prized  fowl  of  the  flock;  through  extra  feeding 
with  pecan-nuts  he  was  being  fattened  for  the 

Christmas  festivities  a  few  weeks  later. 
166 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Lost  His  Long  Tail      167 

The  robber  Lynx,  or  Wildcat  of  the  local  name, 
was  a  monster  of  his  kind,  as  his  retreating  tracks, 
which  were  partly  filled  with  rainwater,  showed. 
At  the  seven  o'clock  sunrise  his  footprints  in  the 
rain-softened  soil,  leading  from  the  turkey  roost  to 
the  forest  road,  were  found  by  old  Uncle  Jason  on 
his  early  morning  rounds.  Along  that  trail  was  a 
turkey  feather  here  and  there  to  turn  suspicion 
into  conviction.  The  footprints,  big  as  those  of  a 
large  dog,  led  straight  on  down  the  road  to  the 
woods.  The  loaded  wildcat  had  chosen  a  straight 
and  clear  way  for  the  carrying  of  his  heavy 
plunder. 

After  the  old  black  hunter  of  "  varmints  "  had 
called  the  master  of  Birdland  and  taken  him  to 
look  at  the  departing  tracks  and  fallen  feathers 
he  proposed  to  run  down  the  robber  right  away 
with  his  mixed  pack  of  fice,  cur  and  other  mongrel 
dogs.  But,  fearing  that  such  inferior  noses  could 
not  follow  the  fugitive  lynx  to  his  lair,  the  late 
owner  of  the  lost  turkey  forbade  such  an  attempt. 
With  a  better  plan  in  view  he  returned  to  the 
house  and  telephoned  the  young  Doctor  and  an- 


168     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

other  friend  living  near  him,  who  owned  a  pack 
of  a  dozen  hounds,  to  come  up  as  quickly  as  they 
could  to  take  breakfast  at  Birdland,  and  bring 
their  hounds  along  to  hunt  the  predatory  lynx  im- 
mediately after  that  meal.  , 

Within  half  an  hour  the  two  young  sportsmen 
arrived  on  horseback,  followed  by  their  hounds 
leashed  in  pairs.  Having  begged,  and  been 
granted  a  holiday  for  such  an  unusual  hunt,  the 
Birdland  Boy  already  had  his  spirited  Mexican 
pony  saddled  and  at  the  hitching  rack  when  the 
visitors  arrived. 

Finishing  breakfast,  the  three  hunters  took 
horse,  and,  at  the  nearer  end  of  the  forest  road, 
were  joined  by  Uncle  Jason  mounted  on  his  grey 
mule  and  surrounded  by  his  mongrel  pack.  When 
the  coupled  hounds  reached  the  road  the  hated 
wildcat  scent  set  them  howling  and  straining  at 
their  leashes.  The  curs  sniffed  in  surprised  con- 
tempt at  such  noise  and  unnecessary  excitement, 
as  if  they  thought  those  long-eared  dog-donkeys 
were  making  great  fools  of  themselves  pretending 
that  any  kind  of  wild  beast  had  passed  that  way 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Lost  His  Long  Tail      169 

without  their  knowing  of  it  and  smelling  him  out, 
themselves. 

The  eager  hounds  were  held  back;  and  the 
horsemen,  enthused  at  the  certainty  of  running 
down  the  lynx  on  a  scent  so  fresh,  loped  their 
steeds  to  the  rear  fence  of  the  plantation.  There 
numerous  feathers  were  found  scraped  from  the 
gobbler  as  its  body  was  dragged  over  the  lowest 
of  the  draw-bars.  Those  movable  barriers  were 
quickly  let  down;  and,  at  a  little  distance  from 
them,  on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  lay  a  pile  of 
feathers  and  torn  fragments  of  the  lost 
turkey. 

The  hounds  were  hurriedly  unleashed  on  the 
spot,  and  rushed  away  into  the  woods  howling  on 
the  hot  trail.  The  chase  was  too  warm  and  wild 
for  the  mongrels  of  the  Negro  Quarters  to  main- 
tain their  silent  contempt.  They  broke  away  in 
the  wake  of  the  hounds,  yapping,  yelping  and 
barking  their  best.  In  the  words  of  the  old  black 
hunter  of  "  varmints  "  the  two  clamorous  packs 
"  woke  up  de  woods." 

The  lynx,  having  been  suddenly  aroused  from  a 


170     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

one-eyed  nap  in  a  dense  thicket  near  the  scene  of 
his  breakfast  of  nearly  a  whole  turkey  that  was 
too  much  for  one,  very  soon  learned  that  he  was 
having  the  hardest  and  perhaps  the  last  run  of  his 
life. 

The  horsemen  followed  the  chase  as  best  they 
could  down  rough  branch  roads,  and  through  clear- 
ings and  open  timber,  while  Uncle  Jason  on  his 
grey  mule  fell  far  in  their  rear. 

After  two  or  three  miles  of  rapid  flight  and  cun- 
ning dodging,  finding  that  the  hounds,  which  he 
had  at  first  easily  outrun,  were  still  true  to  his 
trail  and  were  fast  gaining  on  him,  the  hard-pressed 
lynx  at  last  took  to  a  tree.  Coming  up  quickly 
the  pursuing  dogs  stopped,  and',  seeing  him  above 
them  and  out  of  their  reach,  redoubled  their  former 
clamor. 

Soon  after  the  lynx  had  "  treed "  the  riders 
reached  his  refuge  nearly  together,  when  they  saw 
the  fierce  cat,  as  large  as  any  of  their  hounds,  lying 
in  the  lowest  fork  of  a  liveoak.  He  was  glaring  at 
the  dogs  on  the  ground  with  his  great  yellow  eyes, 
and  answering  their  frenzied  howling  and  barking 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Lost  His  Long  Tail       171 

with  growls  of  hate.  His  attention  was  so  closely 
fixed  on  the  dogs  directly  beneath  him  that  he  did 
not  see  his  human  foes  until  they  rode  under  the 
tree  a  dozen  yards  from  its  trunk. 

Fearing  dogs  far  less  than  men,  he  instantly 
sprang  to  his  feet  at  the  first  sight  of  his  human 
hunters,  and  leaped  to  the  ground  in  desperation 
to  take  a  last  chance  of  escape  in  another  long  run. 
But,  as  he  touched  the  ground,  a  brave  little  bench- 
legged  fice  that,  having  been  belated,  had  just  ar- 
rived at  the  outer  edge  of  the  pack,  rashly  grabbed 
one  of  his  hind  legs.  Whirling  as  quick  as  light- 
ning, the  seized  cat  had  time  to  give  that  fool- 
hardy fice  just  one  tap  on  the  head  with  his  hard 
bony  foreleg  before  the  many  other  dogs  could 
close  in  on  him.  With  a  cracked  skull  the  valiant 
fice  went  to  the  happy  hunting  grounds  without 
knowing  what  had  hit  him. 

Then  more  than  a  score  of  dogs  of  high  and  low 
degree  rushedi,  crowding  over  each  other,  into  the 
fight.  The  mass  of  them  made  a  rolling,  raging 
mound  of  hair,  fur,  claws  and  fangs,  in  the  midst 
of  which  the  savage  wildcat  fought  his  way  to  the 


172     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

foot  of  the  liveoak  from  which  he  had  leaped  a  few 
moments  before. 

There  he  backed  against  the  gnarled  trunk  for 
the  death-combat.  It  was  not  long,  but  it  was  furi- 
ous while  it  lasted.  When  it  was  finished  the  great 
lynx  lay  dead;  but  he  had  left  many  a  life-scar 
among  his  conquerors;  and  their  ravings  and 
slaverings  of  the  battle  were  changed  to  whines 
and  whimpers  of  pain  as  they  licked  their  many 
wounds  after  their  victory  was  won. 

Old  Jason,  on  his  slow  mount,  reached  the  bat- 
tlefield shortly  after  the  conflict  was  over.  When 
he  beheld  the  huge  lynx,  lying  stretched  in  death 
on  the  ground,  he  exclaimed: 

"Gre't  fathers!  — dat's  de  bigges'  ole  wilecat 
I's  ever  seed  in  all  my  life,  an'  I's  been  in  at  de 
killin'  o'  many  a  one!  " 

Then,  catching  sight  of  his  dead  fice,  he  dis- 
mounted, walked  over  to  it,  and  after  discovering 
the  cause  of  its  death,  he  rambled  on  in  a  tone  of 
angry  reproach,  as  if  the  brave  little  dog  were  still 
living : 

"  So,  Pepper,  you's  done  cotch  it  at  las',  has  you? 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Lost  His  Long  Tail       173 

What  I  tell  you,  dawg?  Ain't  I  done  warn  you 
off 'en  enough  to  keep  out  de  way  when  wilecats  is 
doin'  de  fightin'?  But,  like  a  little  fool,  you  was 
always  ready  to  resh  into  any  fight  at  de  drap  o' 
yo'  hat;  an'  now  you's  gone  an'  got  yo'se'f  kilt 
deader 'n  dat  wilecat  layin'  dar!  " 

The  old  hunter,  frowning  at  the  past  rashness 
of  the  deceased  Pepper,  picked  him  up,  carried 
him  to  a  hollow  log  lying  near  and  stuffed  his  body 
as  far  as  he  could  reach  into  its  cavity  and  stopped 
its  mouth  with  dead  brushwood.  Thus  that  little 
warrior  was  buried  on  his  last  battlefield. 

The  wildcat  was  left  a  prey  to  the  buzzards. 
His  skin  was  too  badly  torn  to  be  worth  taking 
home.  As  they  were  leaving,  the  Birdland  Boy, 
taking  a  last  look  at  the  lynx's  lank  body,  ex- 
pressed his  wonder  that  so  long  a  cat  should  have 
such  a  short  tail. 

Old  Jason  smiled  at  the  boy's  remark  and  said 
to  him: 

"  Ef  you  kin  keep  dat  frisky  pony  o'  your'n 
close  alongside  o'  dis  lazy  mule  whilst  we's  gwine 
home  I'll  tell  you  how  dat  come  to  happen:  Mr. 


174     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Wilecat  warn't  made  dat  a  way  at  fust ;  he  got  his 
tail  bobbed  for  his  mizz'able  meanness." 

When  they  were  out  of  the  woods,  and  the  pony 
had  been  hauled  up  beside  the  jogging  mule  and 
held  back  to  match  the  latter's  gait,  the  old  man 
began : 

"  I  hearn  dis  tale  I's  gwineter  tell  you  now  in 
dis  part  o'  de  country  atter  I  come  f 'om  ole  Ver- 
ginny,  about  fifty  year  back,  mo'  or  less.  De  ole 
Creeowl  colored  folks  tole  it  to  me  befo'  de  war. 
Dey  claimed  deir  granddaddies  got  it  f'om  de 
Laffoosh  Inguns,  who  owned  all  o'  dis  sugar  coun- 
try befo'  we  an'  de  white  folks  did.  I  cyarnt  talk 
dat  kind  o'  Creeowl  gumbo  whar  'Merikin'  an' 
French  is  all  mixed  up  an'  biled  down  in  de  same 
pot:  —  dat's  des'  like  Creeowl  cookin',  wid  so 
many  diffunt  tas'es  in  de  same  dish  you  dunno  it's 
main  meat.  But  dey  tole  me  dis  tale  so  offen  I 
managed  to  ketch  it  right,  an'  I'll  tell  it  to  you  in 
good  ole  Verginny  talk. 

"  Dey  says  dat  de  fust  Wilecat  ever  bawned  here 
lived  away  back  in  de  woods  out  yander.  Atter  he 
growed  up  he  built  him  a  good  house,  an'  he  hoped 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Lost  His  Long  Tail      175 

to  raise  a  fine  lurge  family,  like  mos'  cats  gin'ally 
does.  But  he  didn'  have  neither  wife  nor  chilluns 
den.  Well,  dat  fust  o'  de  Wilecats  was  fat  an' 
strong,  an'  a  whole  lot  bigger'n  dat  ole  Wilecat 
we's  des'  done  kilt  an'  lef  out  in  de  woods.  He 
wored  a  fine  spotted  coat,  an'  he  had  a  tail  as  long 
as  his  coat;  same  as  every  cat  has  what  ain't  had 
it  cut  off  by  a  mischeevous  boy  or  a  no-'count  man, 
—  an*  dere's  a  heap  o'  sich. 

"  Mr.  Wilecat  was  prouder  o'  his  long  tail  dan  a 
he  peacock  is  o'  his'n.  He  would  switch  it  dis 
aways  an'  dat  aways,  an'  qurl  it  at  de  een'  like 
some  young  mens  keeps  a  twistin'  an'  foolin'  wid 
deir  fust  musstash,  wantin'  ev'ybody  nigh  to  see 
dey's  got  one. 

"  A  mile  or  so  f 'om  Mr.  Wildcat's  house  was  a 
deep  bayou  runnin'  thew  de  back  o5  de  woods,  nigh 
de  ma'sh.  Dat  bayou  was  full  o'  de  bestes'  kind  o' 
fish.  On  its  bank  lived  Mr.  Otter,  in  a  big  hole  for 
his  house,  wid  its  do'way  or  mouf  underneaf  de 
water. 

"  Some  ways  furder  down  de  bayou  Mr.  Mink 
had  his  home  in  another  hole  in  de  bank. 


176     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  Dey  was  bofe  fishermans;  for  dem  days  Mr. 
Mink,  like  Mr.  Otter  does  now,  never  e't  nuttin* 
but  fish,  though  he's  changed  his  ways  sence. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Wilecat  was  fonder  o'  fish  dan  a 
tame  cat  is.  When  he  could  git  it  he'd  ruther  eat 
fish  dan  fresh  meat;  same  as  some  folkses  who'd 
ruther  have  de  grub  dat  belongs  to  somebody  else 
dan  what  dey  owns  deyse'fs. 

"  But  Mr.  Wilecat  couldn'  ketch  fish  for  hisse'f 
an'  de  onliest  way  he  could  git  any  was  to  hide  by 
de  bayou  an'  watch  Mr.  Otter  an'  Mr.  Mink  when 
dey  went  a'  fishin'  an*  wait  dar  to  take  deir  fish 
away  f'om  'um  when  dey  cotched  'um  an'  fetched 
'um  to  de  bank  to  eat  'um,  like  dey  always  does. 
Den  Mr.  Wilecat  would  slip  up  on  Mr.  Otter  or 
Mr.  Mink,  easy,  easy,  easy,  so  dey  couldn'  hear 
him  'proachin',  an'  when  he  got  nigh  enough  he 
would  bounce  beside  'um  befo'  dey  had  time  to 
jump  in  de  bayou  out  o'  his  reach  to  save  deir  fish. 

"  Den,  widout  even  sayin'  '  Howdy,  Mr.  Otter,' 
or  '  Howdy,  Mr.  Mink/  he  would  growl : 

"  '  I  see  you's  got  fish  for  dinner  to-day ;  sence 
you's  forgot  to  invite  me  I  guess  I's  got  to  invite 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Lost  His  Long  Tail      177 

myse'f.'  Den,  ef  dey  grumbled  at  his  takin'  de 
lurges'  share,  or  de  whole  o'  de  grub:  slap!  — 
slap!  —  slap!  he'd  box  'um  on  bofe  sides  de  head 
de  same  second,  an'  dey'd  ha'  to  jump  in  de  water 
an'  duck  deir  heads  under  to  ease  de  pain  an'  stop 
de  loud  ringin'  in  deir  ears.  An'  when  dey'd  come 
up  to  ketch  deir  breaf,  atter  Mr.  Wilecat  had  e't 
up  all  de  fish,  he'd  stay  dar  awhile  to  torment  'um 
wid  tellin'  'um  what  a  nice  dinner  it  was,  an'  mo' 
pesterin'  talk. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Otter  an'  Mr.  Mink  study  an'  study, 
an'  plan  an'  plan  how  to  stop  Mr.  Wilecat  f  om 
stealin'  deir  fish  so  offen.  For  a  long  time  dey'd 
bofe  been  worried  mos'  out  o'  deir  wits  by  Mr. 
Wilecat's  axin'  'um  over  an'  over  to  1'arn  him  how 
to  ketch  fish  like  dem.  But  dey  was  af eared  to  tell 
him  de  trufe,  bekase,  thinks  dey,  ef  a  gre't  big 
critter  like  Mr.  Wilecat,  wid  sich  long  legs  for 
swimmin',  sich  long  toofes  for  killin',  an'  sich  a  big 
mouf  for  eatin',  1'arnt  deir  way  o'  fishin',  an'  took 
to  de  bizness  steady  he'd  soon  'sterminate  all  de 
fish  in  de  bayou,  an'  dey'd  starve  to  deaf. 

"  Bimeby  Mr.  Otter  hits  on  a  good  projick,  an' 


178     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

he  ups  an'  away  to  hunt  for  Mr.  Mink  an'  tell  him 
about  it.  When  he  f oun'  Mr.  Mink  an'  tole  him  de 
plan  he  made  him  keep  de  las'  word  of  it  to  hisse'f. 

"  De  nex'  time  Mr.  Wilecat  happen'  along  an' 
foun'  Mr.  Otter  at  dinner,  dat  slick  fisherman 
make  out  he  moughty  glad  to  see  him;  he  git  up 
an'  say: 

"'Howdy,  Mr.  Wilecat?  You  come  in  good 
time,  I  got  a  fine  dinner  to-day;  set  down  an'  eat 
it  all,  bekase  I  ain't  a  bit  hongry,  myse'f.'  Den, 
whilst  his  company  was  busy  eatin',  he  went  on: 
'  Oh,  Mr.  Wilecat,  you's  been  axin'  me  for  de 
longes'  time  to  1'arn  you  my  an'  Mr.  Mink's  way 
o'  fishin' ;  I's  been  moughty  mean  to  you  not  to  tell 
you  befo',  but  I's  gwine  to  make  up  for  it  by  lettin' 
you  know  right  now.  It's  dis;  we  bofe  fishes  wid 
our  tails;  an',  when  de  fish  bites  an'  swallers  'um 
fur  enough,  we  juks  'um  quick  roun'  to  our  moufs, 
an'  grabs  'um  wid  our  teefes,  an'  takes  'um  asho' 
to  eat  'um.' 

"  *  Huccome  you  don't  set  on  de  bank  an'  drap 
yo'  tails  in  de  water  instid  o'  divin'  down  under  de 
water  to  do  yo'  fishin'?'  axed  Mr.  Wilecat. 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Lost  His  Long  Tail       179 

"  Mr.  Otter  answer' :  '  Ef  I  only  had  a  tail  as 
long  an'  fine  as  your'n,  Mr.  Wilecat,  I'd  do  all  my 
fishin'  dat  way;  but  put  my  tail  an'  Mr.  Mink's 
togedder  an'  dey  ain't  nigh  as  long  as  your'n;  an* 
ef  we  sot  on  de  bank  an'  drapped  our  tails  in  de 
bayou  we  couldn'  fish  deep  enough  for  nuttin'  but 
sufface-minnows,  whilst  yo'  fine,  long,  strong  tail 
kin  reach  mos'  to  de  bottom,  whar  de  biggest  fish 
runs.' 

"  Nuttin'  in  de  worl'  could  put  Mr.  Wilecat  in 
sich  a  good  humor  as  praisin'  his  long  tail;  same 
as  it  makes  some  fool  folks  proud  to  flatter  'urn  to 
deir  faces;  so  Mr.  Wilecat  begin  to  purr  like  one 
o'  dem  new  little  gasserleem  boats  what  runs  up 
an'  down  de  river,  an'  he  say: 

"  '  Well,  Mr.  Otter,  ef  you'll  pick  me  out  a  good 
fishin'  place,  I  believe  I'll  try  my  han',  or  my  tail, 
at  de  spote.' 

"  '  Des'  wait  here  till  I  swims  a  little  ways  down 
de  bayou  to  fotch  Mr.  Mink,  lie  knows  de  fine 
fishin'  places  much  better'n  me,'  answers  Mr.  Otter. 

"Wid  dem  words  he  lepped  in  de  bayou  in  a 
hurry,  an'  off  he  swummed.  But  when  he  got 


180     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

aroun'  de  fust  bend  out  o'  Mr.  Wilecat's  sight,  he 
dived  down  to  de  bottom  to  look  up  de  lurgest 
Mud-Turkle  he  knowed ;  an*  when  he  f oun'  him  he 
says: 

' '  Oh,  Mr.  Turkic,  does  you  want  a  fine  dinner 
to-day? ' 

"  '  In  co'se  I  does,  I  always  does,'  answers  Mr. 
Turkic. 

"  '  Well,  Mr.  Turkic,  you  go  right  off  de  reel  to 
a  suttin'  place  *  (which  Mr.  Otter  whispered  in  his 
ear) ,  '  an*  hoi'  yo'  head  a  little  ways  under  water 
for  a  while,  an'  you'll  sho'ly  git  one.' 

"Whilst  Mr.  Turkic  paddled  away  fast  as  he 
could  go  to  de  'p'inted  place,  Mr.  Otter  riz  to  de 
su'fface  an'  swummed  on  to  Mr.  Mink's  house. 
Findin'  Mr.  Mink  at  home  de  two  hasted  back  to 
Mr.  Wilecat,  afeared  he  might  git  tired  o'  waitin' 
an'  go  home. 

"  When  dey  got  back,  mos'  out  o'  breaf ,  dey 
foun'  Mr.  Wilecat  settin'  'zackly  whar  Mr.  Otter 
had  lef  him;  an'  when  Mr.  Mink  had  cotched  his 
wind  ag'in  and  said  howdy,  he  says: 

" '  Mr.  Wilecat,  I'll  show  you  de  bestes'  fishin' 


"  'SOON   HE    FELT   A    'SPICIOUS    NIBBLE.'  " 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Lost  His  Long  Tail      181 

place  in  all  dis  bayou ;  come  right  along  wid  me ; ' 
an'  he  tuk  Mr.  Wilecat  a  short  distance  down  de 
bank,  whar  Mr.  Otter  had  made  a  slide  f'om  de 
bushes  into  de  water. 

"  '  Here's  de  spot  fish  bites  any  time  o'  day  or 
night,'  'sclaims  Mr.  Mink. 

"  Mr.  Wilecat  den  sot  down  on  de  aidge  o'  de 
bank  wid  his  back  to  de  bayou  an'  drapped  his  long 
tail  down  deep  in  de  water.  Soon  he  felt  a 
'spicious  nibble,  an'  up  he  jukked  his  tail  wid 
nuttin'  on  it. 

"  '  You  done  los'  him,  you  jukked  too  quick,  befo' 
he  swallered  de  bait,  wait  till  you  gits  a  good  bite, 
den  juk  hard  an'  swif','  says  Mr.  Otter. 

"Dem  words  was  de  sign  for  Mr.  Turkic  to 
watch  out  an'  take  holt;  an*  when  Mr.  Wilecat 
drapped  his  tail  back  in  de  water,  Mr.  Turkic 
grabbed  it  nigh  de  top  een'  an'  shet  down  his  sharp 
jaws  hard  an'  tight. 

"  At  dat  Mr.  Wilecat  jukked  his  hardes',  an', 
heels  over  head,  he  went  into  de  bresh  an'  briars, 
wid  his  fishin'  line  broke  an'  all  his  fine  long  tail 
gone  'cept  de  stump! 


182     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  De  way  dat  big  varmint  riz  up  an'  r'ared,  an' 
ripped  an'  wauled  Wilecat  cuss-words,  an'  clawed 
an'  clubbed  aroun*  was  a  sight  for  eyes  to  see  an' 
ears  to  hear! 

"  Mr.  Otter  an*  Mr.  Mink  had  jumped  in  de 
bayou  at  de  fust  start  o'  dat  strong  pull  betwixt 
Mr.  Turkle  an'  Mr.  Wilecat  an'  went  on  home  like 
de  house  was  afire. 

"  Mr.  Turkle  sunk  to  de  bottom,  whar  Mr. 
Wilecat's  mighty  noise  couldn'  'sturb  his  eatin',  an' 
finished  his  fine  long  dinner. 

"  When  de  wusses'  of  his  mad  fit  was  over  Mr. 
Wilecat  groped  an'  grappled  in  de  water  a  long 
time  for  his  los'  tail;  but  at  las'  he  had  to  give  up 
de  s'arch  an'  go  on  home.  Atter  dat  he  was  so 
'shamed  of  his  short  tail  an'  de  way  Mr.  Otter  an' 
Mr.  Mink  had  made  sich  a  fool  o'  him  he  kep'  clean 
away  f'om  dat  part  o5  de  bayou  whar  dey  lived, 
hatin'  for  dem  tricky  fishermans  to  laugh  at  him 
f'om  deir  hidin'-places. 

"  But  dat  warn't  de  wusses'  part  of  it :  Mr. 
Wilecat's  bob-tail  Vended  down  to  his  chilluns  an' 
deir  chilluns  till  dese  times;  an'  de  whole  Wilecat 


How  Mr.  Lynx  Lost  His  Long  Tail       183 

breed  is  so  'shamed  of  it  yit  dat  dey  hides  f 'om  all 
de  yuther  varmints  o'  de  woods  every  blessed  hour 
o'  de  daylight,  be  dey  long  in  de  Summer  or  short 
in  de  Winter;  an'  dey  goes  slinkin'  an'  prowlin' 
an'  thievin'  'roun'  only  in  de  darkness. 

"  Dey  all  still  nu'sses  dat  oldtime  grudge  ag'inst 
Mr.  Otter  an'  Mr.  Mink,  while  all  o'  Mr.  Otter's 
an'  Mr.  Mink's  'scendants  knows  dey  has  it  an' 
gwine  to  keep  it  till  de  een'  o'  de  worl'.  So  when 
dey  fishes  in  de  water  or  dey  slips  thew  de  woods 
Mr.  Otter  an'  Mr.  Mink  always  keeps  one  eye 
open  for  danger. 

"  Git  up  here,  you  pesky,  lazy  mule,  you's 
movin'  like  you  don't  know  it's  gwine  on  todes 
dinnertime!" 


XIII 
Jjttr.  Jtfinlt  Hrrame  a  ?KMtnt0man 


A  COLD,  blustering  North  wind  was  blow- 
ing at  Birdland  and  all  over  the  sugar 
region  one  afternoon  of  the  midwinter,  al- 
though the  sky  was  perfectly  clear.  Mademoiselle, 
the  governess,  and  the  Twins  were  out  of  doors  in 
the  bright  and  bracing  weather,  running  about  the 
mansion  grounds  to  keep  warm.  In  the  midst  of 
their  romp  they  came  across  old  Uncle  Jason,  who 
was  working  beside  his  light  job-cart,  to  which  his 
almost  inseparable  grey  mule,  Old  Abe,  was 
hitched.  With  a  hay-fork  the  old  man  was  pitch- 

184 


How  Mr.  Mink  Became  a  Huntsman     185 

ing  the  piled  up  trash  of  recently  trimmed  shrub- 
bery into  his  cart. 

As  Mademoiselle  and  the  Twins  stopped  to  give 
"  Uncle  Jason "  their  usual  hearty  greeting  he 
gazed  admiringly  at  a  new  set  of  mink  furs  worn 
by  the  governess,  and  exclaimed: 

"  Mamzel,  dat  long  mink  windin'  roun'  yo'  neck, 
wid  his  tail  hangin'  down  de  front  o'  yo'  frock  an' 
his  bead  eyes  shinin'  so  bright,  puts  me  in  mind  o' 
dat  ole  Mr.  Mink  who  use'  to  live  out  on  de  bayou 
an'  fooled  Mr.  Wilecat  so  bad.  But  dat  Mr.  Mink 
moved  to  de  woods,  an'  I  hearn  he  done  some 
moughty  funny  doin's  in  de  woods  an'  de  fiel's." 

There  the  grizzled  speaker  abruptly  stopped 
talking  and  briskly  pitched  the  rubbish  into  his 
cart,  as  if  to  make  up  for  the  time  just  wasted  in 
speech.  The  brother  and  sister  knew  that  the  old 
woodsman  had  another  tale  of  the  wild  things  in 
mind,  and  they  begged  him  hard  to  leave  off  work 
at  once  and  accompany  them  to  their  playroom, 
where  a  warm  wood-fire  was  burning,  and  tell 
them  something  about  "ole  Mr.  Mink's  funny 
doin's  in  de  woods." 


186     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Pretending  to  be  very  reluctant  to  stop  working 
when  the  sun  was  still  an  hour  high,  Old  Jason 
leaned  on  the  handle  of  his  pitchfork  for  some  time 
in  frowning  meditation,  as  if  he  were  deeply  and 
doubtfully  pondering  over  the  question  whether  he 
should  continue  his  light  task,  or  take  a  resting 
spell  to  entertain  his  urgent  young  friends. 
Finally  he  decided  to  comply  with  their  request, 
with  these  protesting  words : 

"Well,  Little  Mahster  an'  Little  Mistis',  dis 
trash  here  ain't  gwine  to  walk  out  o'  de  yard  by 
itse'f,  an*  dis  mule  ain't  gwine  to  move  de  cyart 
widout  me  close  behine  him ;  but  it  looks  to  me  like 
I's  got  to  mind  you  two  young  whitefolks,  des'  as 
much  as  I  minded  yo'  Gran'paw  an'  Gran'maw 
forty  yeah  back;  an'  I  mought  des'  as  well  go 
'long  an'  do  what  you  tells  me." 

Then  the  venerable  driver  climbed  up  in  his  cart, 
and,  with  a  severe  frown  on  his  brow  and  a  sus- 
picious smile  in  his  mouth,  tapped  his  dozing  mule 
lightly  with  his  whip-lash,  and  drove  off  toward 
the  back  gate. 

Mademoiselle,  who  was  also  much  interested  in 


How  Mr.  Mink  Became  a  Huntsman     187 

the  promised  mink  story,  then  walked  with  the 
Twins  to  the  playroom.  In  good  time  Old  Jason 
entered  its  door,  saluting  the  place  and  its  three 
occupants  with  an  ancient  low  bow  and  a  spoken 
"  yo'  sarvant "  as  he  came  within,  took  the  wide 
armchair  —  as  ancient  as  he  —  which  the  Twins 
had  set  for  him  in  the  cosiest  corner  of  the  fireside, 
and,  holding  his  wrinkled  hands  a  while  near 
enough  to  the  bright  blaze  to  burn  them,  he 
began : 

"  Well,  dat  ole  Mr.  Mink,  who  use'  to  live  out 
on  de  bayou  whar'  it  passes  thew  de  ma'sh,  —  de 
same  one  like  I  tole  you  what  made  up  wid  Mr. 
Otter  dat  smart  projick  on  Mr.  Wilecat, — tuk  a 
notion  to  move.  De  fishin'  was  gittin'  sort  o'  po', 
wid  him  an*  Mr.  Otter  an'  Mr.  Turkic  an'  Mr. 
Yallergator  at  it  steady  day  in  an'  night  out,  so 
Mr.  Mink  made  up  his  mine  to  move  to  de  woods 
an'  turn  huntsman.  He  built  hisse'f  a  new  house 
at  de  bottom  of  a  big  holler  in  de  thick  o*  de  woods, 
which  was  nigh  enough  to  a  pawnd  for  him  to  git 
a  fish  or  frawg  dinner  when  he  hankered  atter  his 
oletime  feastes. 


188     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  When  Mr.  Mink  moved  to  de  woods  dat  was 
a  moughty  bad  day  for  some  o'  de  weak  an'  skeery 
varmints  what  lived  dar  already.  Yas  sar  reel 
when  dat  new  neighbor  come  to  de  woods  trouble 
was  fetched  wid  him;  an'  it  spread  f'om  de  ma'sh 
behine  to  de  open  fields  in  front.  Befo'  Mr. 
Mink's  movin'  in  Mr.  Mushrat  had  so  many  chil- 
luns  he  ha'  to  chase  mos'  of  'um  out  de  house  to  res' 
in  peace  when  his  day's  wuk  was  done;  but, 
bimeby,  he  notice'  dey  was  gittin'  sort  a  scurce. 
Mr.  Sq'url  ha*  to  sleep  high  in  de  tree,  an*  Mr. 
Gopher  ha*  to  burrow  deep  in  de  groun'.  Den, 
early  one  moonlight  night,  here  come  Mr.  Rabbit's 
young  folks  runnin'  home  deir  hardes',  hollerin': 

"'Daddy!  Oh,  Daddy!  Dar's  a  gre't  big 
black  ha'nt  in  de  woods,  an'  he  tuk  atter  us  an' 
chased  us  home!' 

"'What  yo'  big  black  ha'nt  look  like?'  axed 
Daddy  Rabbit. 

"  '  Oh! '  dey  all  squeals  at  once.  '  Under  de 
trees  he's  black  as  dark;  in  de  clearin's  he's  shiny 
as  de  moonshine;  he's  long  as  a  snake  an'  big 
'roun'  as  a  tree,  an'  his  eyes  is  like  coals  o'  fire  I ' 


How  Mr.  Mink  Became  a  Huntsman     189 

'"Pooh!  — Pooh!'  puff'  Daddy  Rabbit,  'you 
chilluns  was  des'  skeered  by  yo'  own  shadders  in 
de  moonshine  —  shet  up  yo'  squealin' !  I's  'shamed 
o'  you  for  bein'  sich  little  cowards!' 

"  At  dat  de  little  Rabbits  hush'  right  tight,  an' 
snuggle  close  togedder,  wukkin'  deir  lips  like  dey 
was  whisperin'  to  one  anudder  about  de  black 
ha'nt ;  whilst  deir  tale  drapped  out  of  Daddy  Rab- 
bit's mine  in  a  minnit. 

"  But  de  nex'  night  here  come  Mammy  Rabbit 
runnin'  home  f'om  her  pa's'ley-patch,  hoppin'  high 
as  a  young  gal  jumpin'  de  skip-rope,  an'  des' 
bouncin'  in  de  front  door. 

" '  What  you  in  sich  a  big  hurry  'bout,  old 
lady?'  axed  Daddy  Rabbit. 

"  Not  wantin'  to  skeer  de  chilluns  too  bad  wid 
sich  a  tale  Mammy  Rabbit  went  over  an'  whisper 
easy  in  Daddy  Rabbit's  ear: 

"  *  I  was  chased  home  by  a  black  ha'nt,  or  a 
critter  sich  as  I  never  seed  befo'  in  de  woods  or  de 
fiel's.  He  was  black  one  minnit,  red  de  nex',  den 
white  as  de  moonshine;  he  looked  like  a  big  snake 
wid  four  legs,  an'  he  was  lurge  as  a  tree-limb.' 


190     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"'Pooh!  — Pooh!'  ag'in  puff'  Daddy  Rabbit. 
*  You's  wusser'n  de  chilluns,  an'  dey's  skeery 
enough;  maybe  dey  comes  by  it  f'om  der 
Mammy's  side  o*  de  fambly.' 

"  But  de  very  nex'  night  de  same  critter  or  var- 
mint tuk  atter  Daddy  Rabbit,  an'  he  never  tarried 
none  gittin'  home.  De  chilluns,  who'd  seed  him 
a  comin'  across  de  clearin'  before  de  house  like  his 
feets  was  hot,  all  axed  him  togedder  when  he 
reshed  inside : 

' '  Oh,  Daddy,  what  made  you  come  home  so 
swif  ?  Was  de  black  ha'nt  behine  you,  too? ' 

"  Daddy  Rabbit  was  too  busy  pantin'  to  answer 
at  once;  but,  soon  as  he  could  ketch  his  breaf  he 
puff':  ' Pooh!  —  Pooh!  —  No!  —  I  was  —  des' 
limberin'  my  —  legs  a  little  —  for  de  benefick  —  o' 
de  exercise  —  you  chilluns  git  yo'  supper  —  an'  go 
on  to  bed  widout  bodderin'  me  any  mo'  wid  yo' 
fool  questions ! ' 

"Atter  his  own  little  'sperience  Daddy  Rabbit 
made  up  his  mine  to  go  an'  see  Jedge  B'ar  —  who 
settled  all  de  varmint  troubles  —  like  I's  tole  you 
befo'  —  'bout  dat  critter,  or  black  ha'nt,  or  big 


How  Mr.  Mink  Became  a  Huntsman     191 

fo'-legged  snake,  what  chased  him  an'  his  fambly 
home  at  night.  So,  de  fus'  thing  in  de  mawnin', 
he  hunted  up  de  ole  Jedge  an'  'splain  de  case  dis 
away: 

"  *  Oh,  Jedge,  dar's  a  big  black  ha'nt  in  de 
woods;  he  runs  me  an'  my  wife  an'  chilluns  home 
'mos'  every  night,  an'  de  chilluns  an'  deir  Mammy 
is  moughty  afeared  of  him.' 

"  '  How  'bout  de  Daddy;  ain't  he  afeared  some, 
too? '  axes  Jedge  B'ar. 

"  *  Well,  I  dunno  'zactly,  he  ain't  cotched  up 
wid  me  yit,  but  he  looks  moughty  dang'ous,'  an- 
swers Daddy  Rabbit. 

"  *  'Scribe  him,'  says  Jedge  B'ar. 

"  *  He's  black  one  time,  red  anudder,  den  he'll 
shine  like  a  sperrit  in  de  moonshine;  an'  he  has  a 
body  like  a  snake  wid  legs  like  a  varmint,  an'  he's 
about  as  big  ag'in  as  me/  answers  Daddy  Rabbit. 

"'Woof!  woof!  woof!'  larfs  Jedge  B'ar, 
'woof!  woof!  woof!  Why,  mon,  yo'  big  black 
ha'nt  ain't  nobody  but  Mr.  Mink.  What  you 
afeared  o'  Mr.  Mink  for?  Ybu's  bigger 'n  him,  yo' 
teefs  is  longer'n  his'n,  an'  so  is  yo'  legs,  ef  you 


192     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

don't  feel  in  a  fightin'  humor  when  you  happens 
to  meet  up  wid  him.' 

"  *  Yas,  Jedge,  all  dat  mought  be  de  trufe,'  ar- 
gufies Daddy  Rabbit.  '  I  mought  whup  Mr.  Mink 
as  a  varmint,  but  he  kin  change  hisse'f  into  a  ha'nt, 
an'  I's  skeered  of  a  ha'nt  more'n  I  is  o'  de  bigges' 
an'  wusses'  varmint  in  de  woods.' 

"  At  dat  Jedge  B'ar  grinned  some,  an'  den  put 
on  his  cote-look  an'  growled  out: 

' '  Den  what  make  it  you's  always  braggin'  so 
much  'bout  what  you  gwine  to  do  when  you  gits  a 
good  chance?  What  make  you  squat  on  de  grass 
befo'  yo'  own  house,  wid  de  door  moughty  handy, 
an'  stomp  de  groun'  hard  wid  yo'  behine  feets,  an' 
squeal  yo'  dares  like  you's  sp'ilin'  for  a  fight?' 

"  Daddy  Rabbit  couldn'  answer  a  word  to  all 
dat;  so  he  des'  blinked  his  big  eyes  an'  flicked  back 
his  long  ears  an'  scratched  his  chin;  an'  all  dat 
made  Jedge  B'ar  so  mad  he  snorted: 

"  '  Yas,  you  rabbit-folks  is  de  no'countes'  var- 
mints in  de  woods;  you  don't  do  nuttin'  but  eat 
an'  sleep  an'  play,  day  or  night,  wid  yo'  dancin' 
an'  tag-games  on  de  grass  all  night,  till  you  ain't 


How  Mr.  Mink  Became  a  Huntsman     193 

fittin'  to  wuk  or  to  fight,  nor  to  do  nuttin'  'cept  to 
run,  an'  you  ain't  steady  enough  to  stick  to  dat, 
bekase  dey  tells  me  even  Mr.  Turkic  beat  you  in 
a  good  fa'r  an'  squar'  race.' 

"  Wid  dat  Jedge  B'ar  turned  his  back  on  Daddy 
Rabbit  an'  lef  him  widout  de  good-by  word,  an' 
Daddy  Rabbit  lippety-lopped  back  home. 

"  Well,  de  black,  red  an'  moonshiny  huntsman 
kep'  ha'ntin'  de  woods  aroun'  Daddy  Rabbit's 
house  every  night,  an'  de  po'  little  Rabbit  chilluns 
ha'  to  stay  close  at  home  wid  nuttin'  to  eat  but  a 
little  mess  o'  greens  Mammy  an'  Daddy  Rabbit 
brung  home  now  an'  den  in  de  broad  day.  Den, 
one  mawnin',  atter  sun-up,  whilst  Daddy  Rabbit 
was  busy  in  a  turnup-patch  'bout  a  mile  f 'om  home, 
here  come  Mr.  Mink  hot  on  his  trail.  At  de  fus' 
sight  of  him  Daddy  Rabbit  drapped  de  armful  o' 
turnups  an'  green  tops  he  had  pulled  to  take  home, 
an*  he  circled  aroun'  Mr.  Mink  to  git  betwix'  him 
an'  de  woods. 

"  Mon,  dar  was  a  race  for  it  den!  Daddy  Rab- 
bit put  out  for  home  in  a  hurry  wid  his  white  tail 
wavin'  fa'r'well  to  Mr.  Mink.  But  he  was  gwine 


194     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

too  fas'  to  keep  his  win',  an'  soon  he  had  to  slow 
down  a  heap  wid  his  heart  an*  his  lights  'mos' 
bustin'. 

"  Den  Mr.  Mink,  wid  de  same  long  boundin' 
lope  of  his  start,  begin  to  gain  steady.  Closer, 
closer,  closer  he  come,  wid  Daddy  Rabbit  moughty 
tired  an'  pantin'  hard  for  his  secon'-win'. 

"  Daddy  Rabbit  cotch  dat  secon'-win'  wid  Mr. 
Mink  no  more'n  de  length  o'  dis  room  behine  him, 
an'  he  turned  loose  his  legs  in  his  best  licks  ag'in; 
but  he  let  down  sooner 'n  befo'. 

"  Mr.  Mink  never  changed  his  gait  once,  an'  he 
soon  gained  more'n  he  los'  when  Daddy  Rabbit 
got  his  secon'-win' ;  an',  wid  Daddy  Rabbit's  losin' 
dat,  he  was  gittin'  nigher  an'  nigher  every  minnit. 

"  When  Mr.  Mink  was  close  enough  for  de  fin- 
ishin'  spring  to  grab  him  an'  bring  him  to  de 
groun*  for  good  an*  all,  Daddy  Rabbit,  wid  home 
in  sight,  made  one  las'  spurt  o'  speed,  reached  his 
house,  lepped  inside  an*  banged  de  door  tight,  wid 
Mr.  Mink  so  close  behine  dat  he  butted  his  head 
ag'inst  de  slammin'  door. 

"  Daddy  Rabbit  staid  locked  in  his  house  till  de 


JEDGE   B'AK   LAKFED    AG'lN.'  " 


How  Mr.  Mink  Became  a  Huntsman     195 

midday,  when  all  o'  de  night-prowlin'  varmints  is 
home  sleepin'  sound  as  we  folkses  sleeps  in  de 
middle  o'  de  night.  Den  he  hasted  off  to  Jedge 
B'ar's  house  to  beg  de  ole  Jedge  hard  to  save  him 
an'  his  fambly  f 'om  Mr.  Mink.  When  he  managed 
to  wake  up  Jedge  B'ar  by  de  hardes'  knockin',  he 
come  to  his  door  frownin'  an'  growled  out: 

"  '  What  you  doin'  here  bodderin'  me  dis  time  o' 
day  when  you  knows  all  sensable  varmint-folks  is 
sound  asleep  ? ' 

"  At  de  tale  Mr.  Rabbit  tole  'bout  his  race  for 
life  wid  Mr.  Mink  behine,  an'  how  nigh  he  come 
to  gittin'  cotched,  Jedge  B'ar  larfed  ag'in;  but 
when  he  hearn  about  dem  hongry  chilluns  starvin' 
at  home  for  fear  o'  Mr.  Mink  he  tuk  pity  on  dat 
whole  skeery  fambly,  an'  says: 

"  '  Mr.  Mink  seems  to  be  gittin'  too  mean  an' 
bad  to  live  in  de  woods,  an'  it's  about  time  to  1'arn 
him  better  ways  '  —  den  he  stopped  awhile  to  study 
an'  to  hem  an'  haw  de  right  idee  in  his  head;  an', 
atterwhile,  he  says: 

8 '  Frien'  Rabbit,  you  go  back  to  dat  same  tur- 
nup-patch to-morrer  mawnin'  summ'at  sooner'n 


196     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

you  did  dis  mawnin';  Mr.  Mink  is  more'n  apt  to 
foller  you  dar'  ag'in.  Look  out  for  him  keerful, 
an'  when  you  sees  him  comin'  instid  o'  runnin' 
home  cut  right  across  de  open  fiel's  to  de  black- 
folks'  quarters,  which  ain't  as  far  as  de  woods. 
Dar'  de  fus'  henhouse  you  happens  to  see  will  have 
de  door  locked;  but  de  chicken-hole  at  its  bottom 
will  be  open  dat  time  o'  day.  Run  right  into  dat 
chicken-hole  an'  out  ag'in,  an'  aroun'  behine  de 
henhouse  an'  hide.  When  Mr.  Mink  follers  yo* 
trail  into  de  same  chicken-hole  git  up  an'  go  home 
any  gait  you  please,  bekase  Mr.  Mink  ain't  gwine 
to  chase  you  back  to  de  woods.' 

6 '  But  what  I  gwine  to  do  'bout  Mr.  Dawg,  who 
lives  in  de  blackfolks'  quarters,  he's  wusser'n  Mr. 
Mink! '  'sclaims  Daddy  Rabbit. 

"  *  Well,'  growls  Jedge  B'ar,  gittin'  out  o'  pa- 
tience, *  ef  you's  sich  a  fool  as  not  to  know  Mr. 
Quarters'-Dawg  is  wid  his  owner  out  in  de  cane- 
fiel'  dat  time  o'  day  you  ought  to  be  cotched  some- 
ways;  but  go  'long  an'  do  'zackly  like  I  says,  an' 
don't  you  'sturb  me  no  more.' 

"  So  de  nex'  mawnin',  feelin'  moughty  oneasy 


How  Mr.  Mink  Became  a  Huntsman     197 

lest  Jedge  B'ar's  plan  wouldn'  work  out  all  right, 
Daddy  Rabbit  went  'arly  to  de  turnup-patch  an' 
sot  dar  waitin'  an'  watchin'  for  Mr.  Mink. 

"  Bimeby  Mr.  Mink  hove  in  sight,  comin'  on  his 
tracks  out  o'  de  woods,  an'  Daddy  Rabbit  put  out 
right  off  for  de  plantation  quarters.  He  runned 
in  de  chicken-hole  o'  de  fus'  henhouse  he  reach', 
out  ag'in,  an'  hid  behine  de  henhouse. 

"  In  good  time  here  come  Mr.  Mink,  true  to  his 
trail.  He  runned  in  de  chicken-hole;  an'  Mr. 
Rabbit  hopped  up  lightly  an'  lit  out  for  de  woods. 

"  'Zackly  like  Jedge  B'ar  had  figgered  it  all  out, 
Mr.  Mink  forgot  Daddy  Rabbit's  fresh  trail  wid 
de  smell  o'  chicken  ticklin'  his  nose,  an'  de  tas'e  o' 
chicken  waterin'  in  his  mouf,  an'  he  stopped  right 
dar  to  'zamine  aroun'  him.  One  ole  settin'  hen 
quar'led  at  him  some  f'om  her  nes',  but  he  never 
'sturbed  her  none,  bein'  too  smart  to  raise  a  racket 
dar  in  de  daytime.  So,  atter  studyin'  de  place 
well,  he  slipped  out  an'  went  on  home  to  de  woods 
to  projick  a  way  to  do  some  chicken-stealin'  dat 
night. 

"  When   midnight   come,    dar'   was   Mr.    Mink 


198     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

creepin'  to  de  henhouse  door,  whar  he  stopped 
awhile  to  lissen  if  Mr.  Man,  or  Mr.  Dawg,  was 
awake  an'  movin'  aroun'.  But  dar  was  no  moon  to 
keep  Mr.  Dawg  awake,  an'  no  howlin'  Mr.  Dawg 
to  wake  up  Mr.  Man.  So,  wid  de  chicken-hole  shet 
tight,  he  dugged  a  hole  under  de  bottom  o'  de  door, 
an',  gittin'  inside,  he  croped  quiet  to  de  foot  o'  de 
chicken  ladder  leadin'  to  de  roos'. 

"When  Mr.  Mink  got  dat  far  —  clack!  —  an' 
a  good  sharp  steel  trap  grabbed  him  by  de  leg. 
He  squealed,  roosters  squawked,  an'  hens  squalled, 
an'  ah1  de  Mr.  Dawgs  in  hearin'  o'  dat  row  woked 
up  an'  barked. 

"  Den  a  lighted  lantum  come  bobbin'  thew  de 
dark,  de  henhouse  lock  clicked,  de  door  flewed 
open,  an'  Mr.  Man  wid  a  club  run  in  an'  done  de 
res'.  De  nex'  mawnin'  he  skint  Mr.  Mink  an'  soon 
atterward  sold  his  skin.  Maybe  I  was  de  man'  dat 
cotched  Mr.  Mink  an'  skint  him;  an'  maybe  some 
pretty  Creeowl  Mamzel  is  wearin'  his  black  an'  red 
an'  moonshiny  furrer  right  now. 

"  Daddy  Rabbit  an'  all  o'  his  fambly  sho'ly  was 
glad  when  ole  Mr.  Mink  was  gone  for  good;  an' 


How  Mr.  Mink  Became  a  Huntsman     199 

dey  all  still  lives,  sleepin'  an'  eatin'  all  day,  an' 
dancin'  an'  playin'  tag  in  de  moonlight  all  night. 
And  Daddy  Rabbit  still  squats  on  de  grass  an' 
stomps  de  groun'  an'  squeals  his  dare  to  brag  how 
brave  he  is;  an'  he's  still  ready  to  run  away  at  de 
drap  of  a  ripe  hick'ry-nut  on  de  dead  leaves." 


XIV 

Hattys  Jttottletr 


IT  was  the  evening  of  Mademoiselle's  birthday 
anniversary;    it  is  unnecessary  to   give   the 
number,  as,  perhaps,  that  modest  young  lady 
might   have  been   more  reluctant   to   reveal   her 
youth  than  to  tell  her  age.    Among  several  very 
pretty  presents  sent  her,  or  given  her  directly,  in 
remembrance  of  the  day  the  prettiest  was  a  costly 
and  handsome  gift  which  came  without  the  name 

of  the  donor,  and  without  a  word  to  signify  who 
200 


My  Lady's  Mottled  Belt  201 

had  sent  it,  or  to  furnish  the  least  clue  of  its  source. 
If  the  intent  of  the  giver  had  been  to  add  interest 
to  the  gift  by  mystifying  the  fair  maid  who  re- 
ceived it,  and  piquing  her  feminine  curiosity,  he, 
or  she  succeeded  very  well  in  such  purpose. 

Mademoiselle  herself  was  perfectly  sure  that  it 
had  come  from  one  of  her  most  intimate  girl 
friends  of  the  city,  a  fellow  graduate  of  the  Con- 
vent of  the  Sacred  Heart,  with  its  noted  finishing 
school;  and  she  fancied  that  a  little  touch  of  teas- 
ing had  accompanied  the  gift,  with  the  intent  of 
tiying  to  make  its  recipient  believe  that  it  had 
come  from  some  fond  admirer  of  the  other  sex. 

The  Birdland  Twins  and  their  parents  offered 
many  guesses  at  the  name  of  the  sender;  but  no 
one  could  decide  how  nearly  they  hit  or  how  widely 
they  missed  the  object  of  their  curiosity.  When 
the  handsome  young  Doctor,  who  had  been  invited 
to  help  celebrate  the  evening  of  that  happy  natal 
day,  arrived,  they  immediately  showed  him  the  mys- 
terious present  and  set  Mm  to  guessing  to  solve  the 
puzzling  question  of  its  source. 

The  Doctor,  holding  the  very  interesting  object, 


202     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

in  his  hand  for  some  time,  closely  examined  it  with 
admiring  and  wondering  eyes.  It  lay  in  an  oblong 
morocco  box,  about  the  size  of  most  books,  on  a 
bed  of  purple  cotton.  On  its  cover  the  box  bore 
the  name  in  gilt  letters  of  the  recipient,  and,  on  the 
reverse  was  minutely  graven  that  of  the  most  noted 
jewelry  firm  in  New  Orleans.  Within  the  box  was 
a  complimentary  card,  on  which  was  no  name,  but 
it  bore  this  graven  inscription: 

"  From  him  who  first  wore  me." 

The  beautiful  birthday-gift  was  a  wide,  mottled 
belt,  clasped  by  a  gold  buckle  of  double  serpent 
heads.  The  material  of  which  the  belt  was  made 
was  a  very  thin  and  pliant  leather,  which  was  prop- 
erly stiffened  beneath  with  some  stouter  fabric, 
and  lined  on  its  inner  side  with  pearl-colored  satin. 
The  outer  surface  was  of  a  pale  tawny  color,  or 
copper-tint,  marked  with  evenly  placed  diamond- 
shaped  figures  in  jet-black  dots. 

The  mottled  belt  was  the  finely  tanned  and  fin- 
ished section  of  an  enormous  rattlesnake's  skin,  as 


My  Lady's  Mottled  Belt  203 

they  all  knew  when  it  was  first  taken  out  of  the 
jeweler's  case. 

The  visitor  ventured  more  guesses  as  to  the 
name  of  its  giver  than  the  pretty  girl  who  had  re- 
ceived it  and  the  Twins  and  their  parents  com- 
bined. His  taking  so  many  random  shots  at  the 
mystery  might  have  led  persons  of  more  guile  than 
his  friends  of  Birdland  to  suspect  that  he  was 
firing  so  often  merely  to  divert  suspicion  from  his 
own  direction. 

When,  after  eager  insistence  of  the  others, 
laughing  and  blushing,  Mademoiselle  clasped  that 
perfectly  fitting  girdle  around  her  waist,  over  that 
which  she  already  wore,  the  Doctor  declared  that 
she  was  extremely  becoming  to  it,  and  she  might 
prove  as  fatal  to  men  wearing  it  now  as  was  the 
serpent  who  had  worn  it  first.  Then  in  further 
bantering  tones  he  went  on: 

"  Now  that  you  have  a  rattlesnake  belt,  I  can 
get  you,  from  a  negro  snake-doctor  who  lives  in 
the  nearest  town,  the  skins  of  two  little  coral  ser- 
pents for  crimson  and  gold  bracelets;  there  I 
might  also  find  enough  rattles  of  the  singing-ser- 


204     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

pent  to  make  you  a  necklace  of  beads;  we  might 
take  the  hide  from  a  tender  young  alligator  to  fur- 
nish you  befitting  walking  boots,  borrow  hawks- 
wings  and  heron-plumes  to  bedeck  your  dark  hair 
and  thus  have  you  as  beauteously  arrayed  from  the 
raiment  of  the  wild  things  as  was  ever  the  loveliest 
young  maid  of  the  Houmas  Indians  who  once 
dwelt  here  beside  the  Father  of  Waters." 

They  all  laughed  heartily  at  this  fancy  picture 
of  the  young  Governess  in  savage  attire ;  and,  thus 
finding  his  limited  audience  in  a  receptive  mood, 
the  Doctor  developed  symptoms  of  drifting  into 
his  story-telling  failing.  Encouraged  by  the  un- 
necessary urging  of  the  Twins,  and  the  smiling 
silence  of  their  parents  and  also  of  the  Governess, 
he  began: 

"  It  was  not  altogether  in  fun  that  I  pictured 
Mademoiselle  adorned  with  snakeskins  and  wear- 
ing alligator  hides  and  bird-feathers;  but,  isn't  it 
perfectly  ridiculous  how  women  rob  the  wild  things 
for  their  ornaments  nowadays?  They  are  more 
beautiful  than  the  birds,  yet  they  borrow  their 
feathers,  —  from  dainty  heron-aigrettes  down  to 


My  Lady's  Mottled  Belt  205 

pigeon  wings,  —  to  make  themselves  look  prettier; 
their  necks  may  be  whiter  than  Annie  Laurie's, 
like  the  swan,  yet  they  try  to  improve  their  orig- 
inal snow  with  swansdown  trimmings;  they  adorn 
their  lovely  tresses,  top,  back,  and  sides,  with 
combs  from  the  shell  of  the  ugly  tortoise;  they 
girdle  their  willowy  waists  with  the  skins  of  hide- 
ous serpents ;  and  they  even  carry  their  wealth  and 
their  fine  raiment  in  bags  made  of  the  hide  of  the 
horrible  crocodile!  —  but,  oh  my,  how  I  ramble!  — 
Let  me  get  back  to  rattlesnakes  right  away! 

"  My  Lady's  mottled  belt,  possibly,  came 
dressed  and  finished  from  a  curio  store  in  the  city, 
containing  a  small  tannery  in  which  are  employed 
two  or  three  expert  workmen  from  France.  For 
fine  furs,  fancy  bird-skins  and  feathers,  and  reptile 
hides  that  tannery  depends  mostly  on  the  marshes 
and  the  *  chenieres '  —  as  the  Creoles  call  the  live- 
oak  forests  —  of  our  Gulf  Coast  parishes.  Prob- 
ably the  belt-buckle  only  was  added  at  the  jewelry 
workshop. 

"  Some  of  the  '  chenieres '  or  liveoak  forests  in 
the  river-parishes  below  the  city  start  in  the  rear 


206     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

of  sugar  plantations  fronting  on  the  river  and 
stretch  out  many  miles  into  the  low  waste  of  sur- 
rounding sea-marsh.  Those  liveoak  forests  are 
noted  for  their  number  of  rattlesnakes  and  the 
enormous  size  of  some  of  those  deadly  reptiles. 
There  such  small  animals  as  rabbits,  squirrels, 
minks  and  muskrats  are  so  abundant  that  the  rat- 
tlers have  good  hunting,  and  so  much  food  that 
they  reach  the  full  limit  of  their  growth  in  girth 
and  length; 

"  A  doctor,  living  on  that  lower  coast,  who  is  a 
particular  friend  of  mine,  recently  told  me  an  in- 
teresting tale  of1  the  largest  rattlesnake  he  had  ever 
seen  in  that  serpent-abounding  section. 

"  That  *  King  of  the  Rattlesnakes/  as  he  was 
called  by  the  local  colored  folk,  lived  in  a  liveoak 
forest,  which  was  called  by  the  Creole  natives  and 
hunters  '  Grand  Cheniere/  as  it  was  the  greatest 
liveoak  forest  of  that  district.  English-speaking 
residents  of  the  plantations  near  called  it  the  Her- 
mitage Woods,  from  its  having  but  one  old  house 
in  all  of  its  wilds. 

"  The  serpent  monarch  of  the  Hermitage  forest 


My  Lady's  Mottled  Belt 207 

was  seldom  seen;  but  those  few  times  were  much 
more  frequent  than  the  negro  woodchoppers  who 
happened  to  see  him  cared  to  come  across  him. 
They  loudly  declared  and  stoutly  maintained  that 
the  '  monst'ous  snake  was  leben  foot  long  an'  big- 
ger'n  a  man's  leg  in  de  body.'  When  they  saw  him 
they  decided  that  he  was  entirely  too  large  and 
long  and  wicked-looking  to  be  tackled  with  an  ax 
or  a  club  at  close  quarters.  Therefore  on  such 
occasions  there  was  always  a  prompt  and  mutual 
parting  of  company;  and  the  seeing  colored  man 
was  always  more  prompt  in  such  encounters,  trav- 
eling like  calamity  might  be  trying  to  overtake 
him,  while  the  royal  serpent,  with  unruffled  dig- 
nity, kept  slowly  on  his  gliding  course,  scarcely 
honoring  the  human  intruder  on  his  domain  with 
a  rattle  of  warning. 

"  The  superstitious  black  men  who  met  the 
'  King  of  the  Rattlesnakes '  avowed  firmly  that  he 
was  always  preceded  by  a  six-foot  reptile  they 
called  the  '  rattlesnake-pilot,'  a  serpent  devoid  of 
rattles  and  harmless  of  fang.  According  to  the 
immovable  belief  of  most  of  such  negroes  that  lat- 


208    Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

ter  reptile  pilots  the  poisonous  grown  rattlesnake 
in  all  its  paths,  and  most  faithfully  guides  his 
venomous  friend  at  the  shedding  time,  when  the 
rattler  is  blind  or  sees  but  dimly  through  the  thick 
eye-scales  of  its  uncast  skin. 

"  This  fabulous  snake-story  of  the  negro  wood- 
cutters found  little  credence  among  white  people. 
Their  employer  considered  it  a  pure  invention,  on 
which  to  base  their  begging  for  a  dram  to  fortify 
their  nerves  on  going  out  to  their  morning's  work 
in  the  woods. 

"  But,  soon,  a  reliable  and  perfectly  sober  white 
overseer  confirmed  the  incredible  tale  of  the  scared 
negroes  in  some  respects.  Riding,  one  forenoon, 
behind  a  canefield  which  was  bounded  at  its  back 
edge  by  the  Hermitage  forest,  he  beheld  the  King 
lazily  crawling  over  the  boundary  road  between 
field  and  woods  into  the  bushes  skirting  the  forest. 
Amazed  and  horrified  at  the  sight  of  a  serpent  so 
huge,  such  as  he  had  never  before  seen,  he  hastily 
leaped  from  his  horse  to  cut  a  roadside  sapling  to 
kill  his  corpulent  majesty.  But  the  monarch,  lift- 
ing and  shaking  his  rattles  in  a  listless  indifferent 


My  Lady's  Mottled  Belt 209 

manner  at  the  man's  hostile  demonstration, 
crawled  on  across  the  road  and  disappeared  in  the 
underbrush  before  the  rod  of  his  destruction  could 
be  made  ready. 

"  Now,  a  vigorous  healthy  rattlesnake  has  two 
strains  of  tail-music;  one  sounds  like  the  steady 
fall  of  a  stream  of  dried  beans  poured  from  a  bag 
into  a  basket  from  a  slight  elevation.  This  is  when 
his  temper  is  not  much  excited,  just  to  let  men- 
folks  know  he  is  around  and  ready  for  business. 
When  his  wrath  is  fully  aroused  his  war-note  rings 
like  the  fall  of  a  continuous  stream  of  quarters 
flowing  from  a  currency  sack,  a  sound  which  is 
sometimes  heard  by  those  fortunate  enough  to 
have  dealings  with  money  banks.  When  the  rat- 
tlesnake's tail  rings  with  that  shrill  metallic  note, 
beware!  for  he  is  daring  death  with  death. 

"  The  King  of  the  Hermitage  Woods  wore  a 
gorgeous  royal  coat,  with  colors  very  closely 
matched  with  those  of  another  forest  monarch,  the 
royal  Bengal  Tiger.  That  coat,  as  you  see  in  my 
Lady's  mottled  belt,  had  a  tawny  copper-colored 
ground-fabric  covered  with  regular  diamond 


210     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

markings  of  jet,  with  a  satiny  shimmer  shining 
over  it  all.  In  certain  lights  the  copper  coloring 
was  burnished  with  a  lovely  sheen  of  iris,  just  like 
that  which  tints  the  neck  and  breast  of  the  cooing 
turtle-dove :  —  what  a  strange  fancy  of  Dame  Na- 
ture to  touch  the  plumage  of  our  meekest  bird  and 
the  mottled  skin  of  our  deadliest  serpent  with  the 
same  iris  lustre! 

"  Soon  after  death  that  bright  iris  hue  of  the 
rattlesnake  disappears,  as  the  living  lustre  of  all 
other  highly-colored  serpents  is  said  to  do.  The 
serpent-hunters  of  India,  in  order  to  preserve  the 
coloring  on  the  snake-skins  they  procure  for  fash- 
ionable folk,  skin  their  victims  alive,  which  does 
not  trouble  the  ladies  who  wear  their  skins  nearly 
so  much  as  it,  does  the  serpents  that  lose  them. 

"  Nature  gave  the  rattlesnake,  as  it  did  the 
tiger,  the  leopard  and  the  jaguar,  what  the  natu- 
ralists call  its  '  protective  coloring '  to  match  the 
lights  and  shadows  and  growth  of  the  jungle  and 
the  rocky  ravines,  to  conceal  it  from  its  prey.  But, 
in  mercy  to  man,  knowing  that,  lying  still  in  its 
lairs,  it  would  most  likely  be  invisible  to  him,  she 


My  Lady's  Mottled  Belt  211 

fixed  to  its  harmless  end  a  timely  warning  of  its 
presence  for  his  ears.  Many  times  the  sudden 
sounding  of  that  rattle  has  been  the  saving  of  a 
human  life;  and  then  it  has  almost  always  been 
the  singing  serpent's  own  death-knell:  —  but  let 
me  get  back  again  to  our  own  big  snake  and  finish 
him  up  before  you  all  fall  asleep. 

"  The  King  of  the  Hermitage  Forest,  enjoyed 
much  royal  ease;  really,  he  had  no  work  to  do, 
only  a  little  lazy  waiting  while  his  subjects  stepped 
up,  paid  their  dues  and  furnished  him  a  fat  living. 
They  never  had  any  cause  to  complain  later  of  the 
hardness  of  their  lot  under  his  rule. 

"  In  a  loose  flat  coil  he  would  lie  comfortably 
in  the  forest  beside  some  path  used  by  the  smaller 
animals.  Toward  that  path  he  would  point  his 
shovel-shaped  head  with  his  neck  cosily  overlap- 
ping the  coil  nearest  that  narrow  winding  way; 
but  that  neck,  cosy  as  it  looked,  would  be  set  at 
trigger  tension. 

"  Before  the  monarch  grew  very  hungry  he 
would  hear  a  slight  rustle,  in  the  dead  leaves  on  the 
ground,  coming  his  way.  His  dull  leaden  eye 


212     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

would  brighten  and  burn  at  the  sight  of  some  lesser 
animal  stealing  through  the  woods.  Was  it  a  rab- 
bit, as  usual?  —  his  eyesight  was  too  bad  to  distin- 
guish at  first.  No!  this  time  it  was  a  large  mink 
warily  stealing  through  the  woods.  As  this  story  is 
told  of  real  rattlesnake  life  I  might  just  as  well 
change  my  tense  right  here. 

"  That  mink  was,  of  course,  on  mischief  or  mur- 
der bent,  as  minks  mostly  are  when  on  the  move  in 
wood  or  field.  In  the  full  light  of  the  late  fore- 
noon he  was  more  furtive  and  cautious  than  he  ever 
had  need  to  be  in  the  night's  darkness.  As  he  stole 
along  the  woodland  path,  stretching  up  his  long 
neck  and  holding  his  head  high  as  possible  to  look 
in  every  direction  for  danger,  he  noticed  a  new  and 
an  unusual  object  near  the  left  side  of  the  path 
just  a  little  way  ahead  of  him.  He  stopped  for 
quite  a  minute  to  make  it  out,  and  then  decided 
that  it  was  only  a  low  mound  of  dead  leaves  piled 
up  by  some  eddying  wind  in  the  woods.  Mostly 
the  leaves  were  russet,  with  a  few  pink  leaves,  such 
as  the  maple  sheds,  among  them;  they  were 
sprinkled  with  tiny  beams  of  sunlight,  and  mottled 


DECIDED   THAT   IT   WAS    ONLY   A    LOW   MOUND    OF   DEAD    LEAVES. 


My  Lady's  Mottled  Belt  213 

with  bits  of  black  shadow.  That  thick,  weather- 
stained  stick,  with  a  darker  knot  or  knob  at  its  end, 
lying  over  the  edge  of  the  mound  toward  the  path, 
was  but  part  of  a  rotten  limb  fallen  from  the  tree 
above. 

"  The  mink,  reassured,  started  again  in  the  same 
direction  on  his  prowling,  watching  way.  Passing 
the  pile  of  dead  leaves,  so  naturally  sprinkled  with 
the  filtered  sunbeams  and  marked  with  black 
shadows,  he  was  smartly  tapped  by  an  unseen  out- 
stroke  of  the  knobbed  piece  of  rotten  limb. 

"  Startled  into  a  short  squeal  of  terror  by  that 
unaccountable  movement  the  mink  made  a  dozen 
long  bounds  onward;  then  stopped  and  looked! 
back  to  see  how  that  length  of  dead  limb  could 
have  reached  the  path  and  struck  him.  No, 
thought  he,  the  thing  had  not  moved  in  the  least, 
as  he  had  foolishly  and  fearfully  imagined;  it  was 
lying  just  exactly  as  it  was  when  he  first  saw  it; 
but  he  was  puzzled  how  that  fancied  stroke  gave 
him  at  the  same  time  the  smart  sting  in  his  side. 

"  While  the  mink  was  pondering  over  this  puzzle 
the  sting  increased  to  a  burning  pain,  which  crept 


214     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

from  that  spot  on  his  left  side  where  he  had  been 
struck  and  spread  all  over  him.  A  few  minutes 
more  and  that  unfortunate  mink  was  ready  for  the 
belated  royal  breakfast.  Then  the  innocent-look- 
ing leaf-mound  was  transformed  into  a  great  un- 
coiling serpent,  that  leisurely  crawled  up  to  his 
prey,  gradually  swallowed  it  down,  and  stretched 
himself  out  at  length  for  a  good  long  nap. 

"  The  white  overseer  who  had  seen  '  the  biggest 
rattlesnake  living '  crossing  that  backfield-road  in 
the  midsummer  happened  to  be  still  hunting  for 
deer  in  the  Hermitage  forest  late  in  the  afternoon 
of  a  day  in  the  following  October.  As  it  was  not 
nearly  cool  enough  so  early  in  the  Autumn  for  ser- 
pents to  go  into  holes  and  hollows  for  the  Winter 
that  hunter  had  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  ground  for 
snakes  as  well  as  look  around  the  forest  for  deer. 

"  Directly  in  his  path  that  same  mound,  in  a  dif- 
ferent locality,  which  so  closely  resembled  a  pile 
of  dead  leaves  and  rotten  wood,  lay  a  few  steps 
before  him. 

"  The  mute  serpent  that  had  poured  his  venom 
into  the  mink  luckily  was  not  so  silent  at  the  ap- 


My  Lady's  Mottled  Belt 215 

proach  of  the  man,  who  had  also  fancied  him  to  be 
but  a  mound  of  dead  leaves.  Just  as  the  deer- 
hunter's  foot  was  about  to  step  within  the  circle 
covered  by  the  fatal  stroke,  the  snake  sounded  his 
shrill  war-note  and  reared  his  head  ready  to  deliver 
death  to  his  hated  human  foe.  The  startled  and 
terrified  man  leaped  backward  nearly  his  own 
length,  stopped  where  he  stood  a  few  moments  to 
steady  his  shaken  nerves;  then  he  raised  his  rifle 
and  sent  its  smashing  bullet  through  that  hideous 
deadly  head. 

"  The  negro  woodsmen  had  exaggerated  the 
length  of  that  monster  by  considerably  less  than 
a  yard,  for  his  skin  was  more  than  eight  feet  long 
with  his  head  and  rattles  cut  off,  and  his  body  was 
bigger  than  a  man's  leg.  They  should  have  been 
praised  for  their  moderate  estimates;  for  the  won- 
der is  that  they  did  not  have  him  as  long  as  a  tele- 
graph pole  and  big  as  a  barrel. 

"  The  lucky  hunter  who  killed  the  King  of  the 
Hermitage  Woods,  cut,  and  split  some  distance 
up,  a  stout  sapling  and  in  its  cleft  carried  his  be- 
headed body  straight  away  to  the  office  of  the 


216     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

medical  friend  already  mentioned  by  me.  In  giv- 
ing me  this  true  history  of  that  huge  serpent  he 
told  me  that  he  skinned  off  his  royal  coat  and  sent 
it  to  the  French  tannery  on  Chartres  Street  to  be 
converted  into  lovely  woman's  belts,  hand-bags  or 
walking  boots.  And,  perhaps,"  concluded  the 
story  teller,  "  his  serpentine  Majesty  of  the  Her- 
mitage forest  bequeathed  this  birthday  remem- 
brance to  My  Lady  of  the  Mottled  Belt." 

"  And  now  we  all  know  that  he  left  it  to  you  to 
send  Mademoiselle,"  gaily  cried  the  Birdland  Girl 
as  the  Doctor  rose  to  take  his  leave  of  the  family. 


XV 

iicsurrcctf  on  of 


an* 


OUT  in  the  sunshine,  before  the  door  of  her 
room,  sat  the  old  Black-Mammy  of  Bird- 
land  in  a  low  rocking-chair  the  mid-after- 
noon of  one  of  those  bright,  warm  and  beautiful 
days  of  the  latter  half  of  February,  which  are  the 
beginning  of  the  real  Spring  in  that  part  of  the 

country. 

217 


218     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

With  the  racial  love  for  basking  in  the  sun's 
warmth  and  brightness,  the  old  woman  was  happy 
and  comfortable,  although  she  was  by  no  means 
idle;  for  her  fat  fingers  were  busy  mending  some 
large  piece  of  household  linen  which  lay  across  her 
ample  lap;  and  the  peak  of  her  gaudily  colored 
bandana  head-handkerchief  nodded  briskly  up  and 
down  and  back  and  forth  as  she  bent  over  her  work, 
or  stopped  to  look  for  new  holes  to  stitch  up,  or 
new  weak  spots  to  strengthen. 

Happiness  seemed  to  hover  around  the  con- 
tented old  black  nurse,  as  in  subdued  tones  she 
hummed  the  tune  or  sang  the  words  of  bits  of  those 
quaint  old  negro  meeting-house  hymns  that  have 
been  heard  on  the  Southern  plantations  for  gen- 
erations. The  repeated  whistle  of  a  bluebird  came 
from  some  spot  in  the  grounds  not  far  away;  now 
and  then  a  robin  uttered  its  single  or  double  blithe 
"cheep;"  the  mocking-bird  was  practising  his 
mating  melodies  nearer,  and  from  woodshed,  wash- 
house,  or  fence-top,  at  short  intervals,  burst  the 
gurgling  gush  of  the  little  but  very  loud  and  gar- 
rulous native  wren. 


Cock-Robin  and  Jenny-Wren  219 

But  to  the  old  woman's  ears  the  sweetest  sound 
of  all  was  the  merry  laugh  coming  from  the  lips 
of  a  little  girl,  unseen  as  she  ran  and  romped  up 
and  down  the  hedged  walks,  in  the  thicker  shrub- 
bery, or  over  the  winter-blooming  rose  beds. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  little  Birdland  Girl,  who, 
in  the  day  belonging  to  this  story,  was  but  seven 
years  old.  This  was  several  years  before  the  time 
in  which  she  figured  in  some  other  stories  of  this 
series.  But  every  year  of  her  life  was  interesting  to 
those  who  knew  her  best,  as  every  day  of  it  still  is 
to  very  many  people. 

After  an  hour,  perhaps,  of  lively  and  active  play 
her  laugh  and  little  snatches  of  song  became  silent ; 
apparently  she  was  becoming  fatigued  from  her 
very  active  exercise;  and  very  soon  she  was  seen 
coming  slowly  from  the  shrubbery,  crossing  the 
sunny  lawn  toward  her  seated  black  nurse.  When 
she  reached  the  rocking-chair  she  dropped  wearily 
on  the  ground  at  the  old  woman's  feet,  and  laid  her 
flushed  face  against  the  linen-covered  knees,  ex- 
claiming : 

"  Oh,  Mammy,  I  am  truly  tired  out  playing  so 


220     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

hard,  and  in  this  winter  frock  I  feel  just  as  warm 
as  if  it  were  real  summer." 

"  Well,  Little  Honey,"  replied  the  old  woman, 
with  gruff  but  gentle  sympathy,  "  set  still  an'  res' 
yo'se'f  whar  you  is;  an'  maybe,  in  a  few  minnits, 
you  will  be  ready  to  run  away  ag'in  an'  play  as 
hard  ag'in  when  yo'  brether  gits  back  home  from 
school;  an'  he  ought  to  be  along  moughty  soon." 

"  Oh,  he  will  not  be  home  until  dark,"  regret- 
fully answered  the  little  girl;  "  for  he  was  going 
to  spend  the  whole  afternoon  visiting  one  of  his 
school  friends  who  lives  down  the  road,  below  the 
school-house;  I  don't  know  what  to  do  without 
him.  I'm  so  lonesome  and  tired  of  playing  all  by 
myself.  Oh,  I  know  what  will  help  to  pass  away 
the  time  until  he  returns,  Mammy,  you'll  tell  me  a 
story!" 

"  What  does  I  know  about  stories,  chile,  when 
you's  got  yo'  Cock-Robin  an'  Jinny- Wren  books 
wid  colored  bird  picters  big  as  life,  an'  bulls  an' 
chu'ch-bells,  an'  owls  an'  spades  an'  shovels  an' 
graves  an'  sich  things.  Den  you's  got  dat  Red- 
Ridin'-Hood  an'  Ole  Wolf  book;  an'  yo'  Blue- 


Cock-Robin  and  Jenny- Wren  221 

beard  book  wid  de  picters  o'  de  haids  o'  all  de  kilt 
wives  an'  Sister  Annie  on  de  house-top  watchin'  to 
save  anudder ;  an'  yo'  '  Fee !  —  Fi  —  Fo  —  Fum 
—  I  smells  de  blood  of  a  Englishmon  '  book;  all  o' 
which  you's  done  read  to  me  many  a  time  an'  over. 
Now,  what's  a  po'  ole  ign'ant  colored  'ooman  like 
me  gwine  to  do  to  put  her  wits  ag'inst  all  dat  book- 
Farnin'  to  tell  a  little  gal  what  knows  how  to  read 
moughty  well,  herself,  any  o'  my  fool  tales? " 

"  But,  oh,  Mammy,  they  are  all  so  tiresome  and 
horrid  now  that  I've  grown  old  enough  to  under- 
stand them.  They  are  all  about  killings  and  blood 
and  burials  and  bogies  and  eat-'em-up-alives.  I 
want  something  lively  and  funny,  like  you  can 
tell :  —  every  time  I  read  about  the  burial  of  Cock- 
Robin,  which  I  have  not  done  for  a  year,  I  won- 
dered why  the  story  did  not  go  on  and  tell  about 
what  became  of  the  poor  little  bride,  Jenny- 
Wren!" 

"  Well,  Little  Honey  Chile,  ef  yo'  don't  mind 
lissenin'  to  anudder  buryin'  tale,  maybe  I  kin  tell 
you  what  de  Cock-Robin  book  done  lef '  out  about 
dat  part.  But  what  I's  gwine  to  say  needn*  make 


222     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

you  cry  much  in  de  beginnin';  bekase,  maybe, 
you'll  find  a  larf  comin'  at  de  last  een'  of  my  fool 
ole  black  'ooman  story." 

"  Oh,  Mammy,  please  tell  me  all  you  know  about 
Jenny- Wren;  and  I'll  just  make-believe  that  I 
really  and  truly  believe  every  word  you  say." 

The  old  woman  laid  one  of  her  hands  caressingly 
on  the  child's  bended  head  and  tenderly  crooned: 

"  Well,  Little  Honey  Gal,  you  set  right  still  an' 
rest  yo'se'f,  an'  I'll  tell  you  all  I  knows  about  dat 
long  tale  ef  it  takes  tell  sundown. 

"  Like  de  book  says :  once  upon  a  time,  when  I 
was  a  little  gal  almos'  double  yo'  age,  I  hearn  yo' 
gran'maw  read  de  Cock-Robin  tale  to  yo'  oldes' 
uncle ;  an'  read  it  over  to  him  night  atter  night  des' 
befo'  his  early  bedtime,  tell  I  knowed  all  de  story 
better'n  de  book  did  itse'f;  an',  des'  like  you,  I 
wondered  all  de  time  what  dey  done  done  wid 
Jinny-Wren.  Dat  'sturb  me  day  an'  night  tell  I 
was  mos'  'stracted  about  it.  Den  one  night  sumpen' 
moughty  cur'ous  happen.  I  mought  ha'  dreamp 
it,  an'  it  mought  ha'  been  nuttin'  but  a  wakin' 
mind-picter;  but  dis  is  how  it  was. 


Cock-Robin  and  Jenny- Wren  223 

"  One  warm  night  in  de  middle  o'  de  summer- 
time I  was  layin'  in  bed  mos'  asleep  when  a  little 
hunchback  screech-owl  flewed  in  my  winder  an' 
lighted  on  de  sill.  He  des'  sot  dar  still  awhile  an' 
looked  at  me  wid  wide-open  eyes,  like  I'd  des'  done 
axed  him  sumpen'  anudder  an'  he'd  come  dar  to 
answer  me.  Now,  some  fool  folkses  is  sort  o' 
superspicious  about  screech-owls,  an'  thinks  dey's 
full  o'  evil  sperrits.  But  I's  never  been  afeared  o' 
no  bird  dat  ever  flew  aroun'  dis  good  old  place,  day 
or  night,  whar'  chu'ch-folks  has  been  livin'  sence 
time  out  o'  mind.  An'  screech-owls,  what  ain't  as 
big  as  barnyard  pige'ns  nohow,  lives  peaceful  an' 
quiet  in  de  ole  holler  oak  trees  here  all  day;  an' 
dey  flies  an'  pyerches  aroun'  de  place  by  night, 
sayin'  only  *  pur-ur-ur-ur '  time  an'  ag'in  sort  o' 
sociable  to  one  anudder  an'  'sturbin'  nobody  wid 
good  soun'  sense  in  deir  haids." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,  Mammy,"  gaily  interrupted 
the  little  girl,  "  because  many  an  evening  of  the 
Spring  and  Summer,  just  after  dark,  my  brother 
and  I  go  out  under  the  live-oak  trees  where  they 
live  and  purr  at  them  until  they  come  close  to  us 


224     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

and  pun*  back  at  us;  and  we  and  they  have  long 
funny  talks  to  each  other.  Papa  says  that  they 
really  ought  to  be  called  Caf-Owls,  because  they 
have  heads  like  a  cat,  purr  like  a  cat,  and  one  of 
them  will  catch  more  mice  and  young  rats  in  a  year 
than  a  hundred  bird-killing  cats  —  but  please  go 
on  with  your  story." 

"Well,  des'  like  I  was  tellin'  you;  dar's  me 
layiii'  in  bed  mos'  asleep;  an'  dar's  little  Mr. 
Hunchback  Owl  pyerched  on  de  winder-sill  lookin' 
at  me  wid  his  wide-open  eyes  like  I  had  des'  axed 
him  a  question  an'  he'd  come  dar  quick  an'  polite 
as  he  could  to  answer  it  de  bes'  he  could ;  an',  atter 
a  little,  says  he: 

"  '  Little  black  Gal,  did  you  ax  me  what  be- 
comed  o'  Jmnz/-Wren  when  Cock-Robin  got  kilt 
by  de  sparrer  wid  his  bo'n'arrow,  an'  all  de  birds 
had  dat  big  buryin'  time? ' 

"Says  I: 

"  '  I  dunno  as  I  did,  Mr.  Owl ;  but,  sence  you 
sesso,  maybe  I  did  in  my  mind,  bekase  I  was 
thinkin'  about  dat  moughty  hard  when  you  lit  dar 
on  de  winder-sill;  an'  I  wanted  to  hear  de  trufe 


Cock-Robin  and  Jenny-Wren  225 

about  it  moughty  bad;  an'  I'd  be  moughtily  much 
obleeged  to  you,  ef  you  knows  de  tale,  to  tell  it  to 
me?' 

" '  I  knows  it  moughty,  moughty  well/  sollum- 
like  'spon's  Mr.  Hunchback  Owl,  '  bekase  it  were 
my  own  gre't-gre't-gre't-gran'daddy  who  handled 
de  spade  an'  shovel  at  dat  big  Cock-Robin  buryin' ; 
and  all  o'  dat  tale  has  been  handed  down  thew  all 
of  de  Owl  fambly  up  to  my  time,  an'  I's  gwine  to 
pass  it  on  to  my  chilluns.  Dis  is  de  way  it  was  tole 
f ' om  de  fus'. 

"  *  Atter  de  buryin'  o'  Cock-Robin,  wid  de  scat- 
terin'  o'  all  de  crowd  o'  birds  what  was  dar,  de 
bestes'  frien's  o'  po'  Jinny-Wren  took  her  back 
home  an'  dressed  her  up  in  de  proper  mournin' 
weeds;  maybe  'twas  rag- weeds  blackened  by  de 
fust  fros',  but  de  tale  didn'  take  in  all  dem  little 
'ticulars.  Jinny-Wren  wasn'  like  some  gay 
'ooman  folks  amongst  people  what  soon  casts  off 
deir  mournin'  weeds  to  ketch  some  udder  live  Cock- 
Robin.  She  kep'  'urn  on  tell  she  took  an'  died  a  few 
months  atter  de  buryin'  o'  de  bride-groom. 

' *  In  course  it  didn'  take  long  'mongst  things 


226     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

wid  wings  to  tote  de  news  o'  Jinny-Wren's  dyin' 
aroun'  nigh  and  far.  When  dey  hearn  it,  all  de 
birds  in  de  country  whar  dat  happen'  fixed  it  up 
amongst  deyse'fs  to  give  her  de  bigges'  o'  buryin's, 
—  bigger'n  Cock-Robin's,  ef  dey  could;  an'  dat 
was  a  fu'nal  what  dey  made  sich  a  fuss  about 
in  de  books,  like  you  knows  yo'se'f,  little  black 
gal. 

"  *  When  dey  had  all  flewed  up  to  her  house 
f'om  de  fiel's  an'  de  woods  an'  de  hills  an'  de  hol- 
lers, de  fust  thing  they  done  was  dey  sont  for  Mr. 
Woodpecker  to  make  Jinny-Wren  a  nice  fine 
coffin. 

"  '  Mr.  Woodpecker  he  went  right  to  work  on 
de  job,  an'  he  ripped  off  slabs  o'  bark  f'om  a 
sycamo'  tree,  o'  dat  kind  which  looks  like  it  is  all 
kivered  wid  de  fines'  o'  white  silk  an'  satin.  He 
sawed  away,  an'  he  chiseled,  an'  he  hammered  dem 
slabs  togedder  wid  many  a  rat-tat-tat,  rat-tat-tat, 
ontell  he  made  a  coffin  fittin'  to  look  at. 

"'Den  dey  got  Mr.  Hang-Bird  (oriole)  to 
weave  her  a  white  shroud,  made  out  o'  milliums  an' 
milliums  o'  dem  fine  spider-webs  which  floats  in  de 


Cock-Robin  and  Jenny- Wren  227 

air  close  above  de  groun',  what  de  swallers  flyin' 
aroun'  cotched  an'  brung  him. 

"  *  Atter  dat  dey  ag'in  sont  out  Gre't-gre't-gre't- 
gran'daddy  Owl  wid  his  spade  and  shovel  to  the 
graveyard,  to  dig  her  a  grave  beside  o'  Cock- 
Robin's,  whar  de  grass  was  already  beginnin'  to 
git  good  an'  green. 

"  *  When  dey'd1  got  ev'y thing  good  an'  ready, 
dey  took'n  wrapped  dat  buryin'  shroud,  what  Mr. 
Hang-Bird  made,  close  aroun'  «7m?M/-Wren,  an' 
dey  lifted  her  keerfully  into  de  white  sycamo' 
coffin.  Atter  dat  Mr.  Woodpecker  he  hammered 
down  de  lid  tight  wid  a  few  mo'  sollum  rat-tat-tat, 
rat-tat-tats,  an'  den  dey  kivered  it  wid  dem  little 
white  an'  blue  flowers  what  folkses  call  forgot-me- 
nots. 

"  *  De  six  Bluebirds  dey  had  'p'inted  for  pall 
bearers  den  picked  up  de  coffin  an'  stood  ready  to 
tote  it  on  to  de  graveyard. 

" '  When  de  gre't  flock  o'  birds  gaddered  dere 
begin  to  git  into  line  to  walk  out  to  de  grave  Mr. 
Blackbird,  who  had  'p'inted  hisse'f  de  chief 
mourner,  clucked  'urn  all  to  stop,  as  he  had  a  little 


228     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

sumpen'  to  say.  Dey  all  thought  it  was  gwine  to 
be  sumpen'  in  praise  o'  Jinny-Wren,  so  dey  all 
stood  right  still  to  lissen,  like  he  axed  'um. 

But  when  Mr.  Blackbird  riz  up  an'  pretended 
to  wipe  de  tears  out  o'  his  eyes  wid  de  tip  o'  his 
wings,  he  said  he'd  like  to  make  a  few  remarks 
befo'  de  fu'hal  beginned  what  he  hoped  wouldn' 
hu't  de  feelin's  o'  nobody  in  dat  moughty  sollum 
'semblage. 

"  *  Den  he  gaze'  aroun'  wid  a  look  in  his  face  like 
a  preacher  who  had  hearn  somebody  larf  out  loud, 
when  'pentant  sinners  was  'proachin'  de  mourners' 
bench. 

"  '  An'  den,  says  he : 

"  * "  It  look  like  me  an'  Mr.  Crow  am  de  only 
birds  here  what  has  on  de  right  kind  o'  clothes  for 
a  'spectable  fu'nal,  an'  it's  a  shame  dat  so  many 
birds  here  is  disgracin'  deyse'fs  an'  deir  famblies  by 
wearin'  deir  best  finery  at  a  sollum  buryin': 

"  *  "  Dar's  Mr.  Jaybird  heah  wid  his  blue  coat  an' 
his  dove-colored  vest.  Dar's  Mr.  Redbird,  who 
ought  to  git  redder  in  de  face  w'arin'  all  red  f 'om 
de  collar  to  de  tail  of  his  coat.  Dar's  Mr.  Hang- 


Cock-Robin  and  Jenny- Wren  229 

bird,  wid  de  right  kind  o'  black  coat  on  his  back, 
but  a  vest  lookin'  like  a  nes'  afire.  Bar's  Mr. 
Medder-lark  wid  a  speckled  country  coat  an'  de 
gayes'  o'  yaller  shirts.  Dar's  Mr.  Flicker,  wid  his 
wings  gilt,  an'  a  cap  on  his  haid  redder 'n  Mr.  Red- 
bird's  whole  suit.  Dar's  Mr.  Redwing  comin'  heah 
like  a  sojer-man  on  perade  wid  red  an'  gold  eppi- 
lets  on  his  shoulders.  Dar's  red  an'  green  an'  blue 
an'  yaller  all  aroun'  me;  but,  wusser'n  all,  dar's 
Mr.  Mawkin'-bird  comin'  to  a  buryin'  wid  his  grey 
ev'y-day  coat  on,  an'  w'arin'  a  shirt  what  mought 
ha*  been  white  once,  but  looks  like  it  should  ha' 
been  sont  to  wash  week  bef o'  las' !  " 

"  'Cordin'  to  de  tale  as  little  Mr.  Hunchback 
Screech-Owl  tole  it,  dar's  whar  Mr.  Blackbird 
took'n'  put  his  foot  in  it;  as  anybody  who  knows 
Mr.  Mawkin'-bird's  ways  could  ha'  seed  he  did. 
Mr.  Mawkin'-bird  is  de  smartest  bird  what  flies; 
he's  got  de  hottes'  o'  tempers,  an'  a  way  o'  talkin' 
back  at  odder  birds  what  makes  'um  sorry  enuff 
dey  ever  open'  deir  moufs  at  him,  an'  shets  'um  up 
moughty  tight.  So  when  Mr.  Blackbird  'bused 
Mm  about  his  clothes  he  up  an'  say: 


230     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  '  Look  heah,  Mr.  Blackbird,  you  des'  as  well 
go  'long  an*  mind  yo'  own  business  an'  lef  udder 
birds'  clothes  alone.  You  ain't  got  nuttin'  to  brag 
about  dat  way  yo'se'f.  You  owns  only  dat  one 
rusty  ole  black  suit,  an'  you  w'ars  it  ev'ywhars,  to 
weddin's  an'  feastes  an'  fu'nals,  or  anywhars  else 
whar  deir's  much  eatin'  pleasure,  or  prayin'  incite- 
ment gwine  on,  in  which  you  ginnally  gits  more'n 
yo'  sheer.  Now,  sence  you  wants  to  see  all  yo' 
brether-birds  in  mournin'  heah,  I's  got  a  good  plan 
to  expose  to  you. 

"  *  S'posen',  ef  you  wants  ev'ybody  to  w'ar  some 
sign  of  mournin'  at  dis  sollum  Jinny-Wren 
buryin',  you  lend  each  an'  ev'y  bird  heah,  what 
needs  black,  one  o'  yo'  own  black  fedders  to  stick 
in  his  right  shoulder  betwix'  his  wing  an'  his  back 
to  w'ar  as  a  proper  mournin'  sign  as  he  walks  in  de 
graveyard  percession;  des'  like  folkses  w'ars  at 
deir  big  buryin's? ' 

"Says  little  Mr.  Hunchback  Screech-Owl  to 
me  when  he  got  on  dat  far: 

"  '  Little  black  gal,  you  des'  ought  to  ha'  been 
dar  to  ha*  hearn  de  hurra  which  dem  many  hun- 


Cock-Robin  and  Jenny-Wren  231 

dreds  an'  hundreds  o'  birds  raised  at  dat  projick  o' 
Mr.  Mawkin'-bird !  Mr.  Blackbird  wish  he  hadn' 
open  his  mouf  about  de  mournin'  bizness.  But  he 
des'  hatter  'gree  to  smart  Mr.  Mawkin'4>ird's  plan. 
An'  when  ev'ybody  dar  what  needed  one  had 
stepped  up  an'  picked  one  o'  his  mournin'  plumes 
he  was  sheddin'  sho'  enuff  tears.  An',  at  las'  he 
looked  like  he  mought  ha'  been  chief  mourner  at 
about  a  millium  big  fu'nals,  an'  naked  an'  ragged 
as  he  was  befo'  he  fus'  left  de  nes'  whar  he  were 
hatched. 

"  *  Atter  dat  Mr.  Blackbird  didn'  have  no  more 
to  say  about  him  an'  Mr.  Crow  bein'  de  only  birds 
dar  drest  fittin'  for  a  fu'nal. 

" '  When  all  de  birds  dar  had  fixed  dem  bor- 
rowed mournin'  plumes  in  de  right  place,  an' 
primped  up  deyse'fs  properly,  dey  got  in  de  long 
line,  dey  had  started  out  to  form  before,  an'  walked 
sollum  an'  slow,  like  folkses  does,  out  to  de  bird 
buryin'  ground. 

"  '  When  dey  reached  de  place  dey  didn'  have  no 
bull  to  toll  de  bell;  but  Mr.  Hermit-Thresh  tolled 
his  moughty  much  better;  an'  gre't-gre't-gre't- 


232     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

gran'daddy  Owl  filled  de  bride's  grave  wid  de  same 
spade  an'  shovel  he  had  used  for  de  groom. 

"  '  Den  a  fine  Thresh  choir,  wid  Mr.  Mawkin'- 
bird  in  de  lead,  sanged  sich  a  fu'nal  hymn  as  ain't 
never  been  heard  at  no  bird-buryin'  befo'  nor 
sence.' 

"  Heah  Little  Mr.  Hunchback  Owl  hatter  stop 
his  tale.  He  say  he  couldn'  carry  de  chune  o'  dat 
hymn  'zackly  right,  bekase  his  '  gre'ts '  an'  his 
gran'daddies  never  was  much  on  singin'.  But  he 
tole  me  ef  I'd  go  out  to  de  aidge  o'  de  woods  in  de 
middle  of  de  Springtime,  when  de  wedder  was  fair 
an'  de  twilight  was  beginnin'  to  fade  into  de  dusk, 
I  mought  heah  de  Wood-Thresh  singin'  it  all  over 
again  des'  as  sweet  an'  sad  as  it  sounded  in  dat  old 
time  when  Cock-Robin  an'  Jinny-Wren  lived,  an' 
fell  in  love  and  died. 

"Died!  did  I  say!  No,  bless  de  Lawd,  Little 
Honey!  De  story  book  was  wrong.  My  Screech- 
Owl  tale  was  a  dream!  Dat  was  only  one  o'  dem 
make-believe  tales  like  you  said.  Dem  dear  little 
birds  never  did  die!  Or  if  dey  did  dey's  been  res- 
urrected a  good  long  time  an'  is  livin*  ag'in. 


Cock-Robin  and  Jenny-Wren  233 

"  Look  at  all  o'  dem  birds  on  de  lawn  yonder, 
hoppin'  on  de  grass  pickin'  up  deir  supper  befo' 
goin'  to  roost  at  de  settin'  o'  de  sun!  Look!  Bar's 
Cock-Robin,  wid  his  red  breast;  an'  dar's  little 
Jinny- Wren  right  behind  him!  An'  lissen  at  Mr. 
Bluebird  on  de  hedge-top  nigh  'um,  lookin'  down 
at  'um  an'  whistlin'  'um  good  night:  —  An'  yan- 
der  comes  yo'  little  brether  on  his  pony  gallopin' 
thew  de  open  road-gate!" 

The  little  lass  leaped  to  her  feet,  her  white  arms 
flew  around  the  fat  black  neck  of  her  old  nurse  in 
a  quick  loving  embrace,  and  she  joyously  sped 
away  to  join  her  returned  brother. 


XVI 


JWr, 


(Sat 


SHORTLY  before  and  long  after  sunrise  in 
the    Summer    mornings    several    redheaded 
woodpeckers  in  turn  would  entertain  them- 
selves, and,  perhaps,  their  more  quiet  mates,  with 
noisy  rapping  on  the  board  roof -cap  of  the  old 
coach-house   at   Birdland.      There,   after  bugling 
from  their  throats  a  blithe  "  cheer  "  as  a  reveille, 

234 


How  Mr.  Woodpecker  Got  His  Red  Head  235 

they  would  beat  a  regular  longroll  of  drumming 
with  their  bills.  Animated  by  high  spirits,  which 
very  often  seem  to  have  the  same  effect  on  happy 
and  healthy  boys,  those  birds  doubtless  made  that 
noise  for  the  sake  of  the  noise  alone,  regardless  of 
the  lack  of  appreciation  of  others  who  were  com- 
pelled to  hear  it. 

The  feathered  redheads  who  favored  especially 
the  roof -cap  of  the  Birdland  coach-house  for  the 
blowing  of  their  reveille  bugles  and  the  beating  of 
their  resonant  drums  would  perform  about  like 
this: 

"Cheer!  —  rap-rap-rap-b-r-r-r-r!  "  Tapping 
far  more  rapidly  with  their  single  bills  than  the 
most  expert  human  drummer  in  peace-parade,  or 
war-array  could  beat  with  his  double  drumsticks, 
the  birds  would  replace  each  other  in  quick  succes- 
sion at  this  performance,  keeping  it  up  for  more 
than  an  hour  of  that  pleasant  time  in  the  morning 
in  which  people  most  troubled  with  "  that  tired  feel- 
ing "  find  sleep  the  most  desirable.  If  such  per- 
sons only  knew  how  fair  was  the  sunrise,  how 
brightly  the  dew-drops  shone  with  rainbow  tints  in 


236     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

its  first  level  rays,  and  how  pure  and  fragrant  was 
the  early  morning  air,  perhaps  they  might  be  less 
content  to  remain  lying  in  the  rumpled  mustiness 
of  an  unmade  bed.  Then,  possibly,  they  might  con- 
sider the  redheaded  woodpecker  a  wiser  bird  than 
they  think  him  to  be  for  getting  up  so  long  before 
they  do. 

What  was  fun  to  the  woodpeckers  that  fre- 
quented the  coach-house  roof  and  hammered  so 
happily  on  its  cap  was  quite  afflicting  to  a  young 
man  who  slept  in  a  loft-room  directly  under  it. 
That  man  was  the  yellow  hostler  of  the  yard-stable. 
In  the  local  vernacular  he  was  known  or  classed  as 
a  Creole-negro,  or  mulatto,  or  one  of  those  who 
speak  a  sort  of  gombo-French,  or  a  worse  broken- 
English  patois,  both  of  which  form  the  dialect  of 
many  of  the  negroes  of  the  southern  half  of  Lou- 
isiana. 

It  was  this  yard-hostler's  duty  to  feed  and  take 
full  care  of  the  six  family  horses,  and  to  have  those 
in  daily  use  properly  groomed,  saddled  and  har- 
nessed before  the  seven  o'clock  family  breakfast 
was  finished.  Like  the  most  of  his  mixed  breed 


How  Mr.  Woodpecker  Got  His  Red  Head  237 

and  generation,  he  loved  sleep  and  rest  and  hated 
early  rising,  which  was  the  necessary  prelude  to 
his  light  daily  work.  The  sun  rose  about  five 
o'clock  in  those  long  Summer  days ;  but,  as  far  as 
he  possibly  could,  the  yellow  hostler  avoided  fol- 
lowing its  good  example.  He  would  wait  until  the 
big  plantation  bell,  from  its  belfry  above  the  corn- 
barn  boomed  its  signal  for  the  general  turn-out  of 
the  field-gangs  at  six  o'clock;  then  he  would  get 
up  overlate  and  hurry  through  his  morning  work 
with  a  rush.  As  the  man  had  enough  good  quali- 
ties to  nearly  offset  his  laziness  this  leading  fault 
was  tolerated  by  a  lenient  employer,  who  felt  that 
in  replacing  him  he  might  g6  further  and  fare 
worse. 

But  the  redheaded  woodpeckers  were  not  so 
tolerant  of  the  hostler's  main  failing  as  was  the 
kind  owner  of  Birdland.  At  all  events,  they 
seemed  to  make  up  their  several  minds  that  as  soon 
as  the  sun  rose  the  sleep-loving  mulatto  should 
do  likewise.  They  "  cheered  "  their  shrillest  and 
drummed  their  loudest  on  the  hard,  well-seasoned 
sounding-board  of  the  roof-cap  above  his  bed. 


238     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

The  sound  of  their  hard  rapping  was  greatly  in- 
creased in  the  garret  beneath  the  roof,  and  their 
noise  was  as  loud  as  if  it  might  have  been  made  by 
a  number  of  boys  tapping  up  there  with  tack-ham- 
mers ten  thousand  times  'a  minute.  There  was 
no  resisting  that  summons  to  wake  up  and  stay 
awake. 

The  hostler  bitterly  hated  those  birds  for  this  un- 
welcome service;  but  he  dared  not  try  to  kill  or 
harm  them;  for  he  well  knew  there  was  an  un- 
breakable law  governing  the  Birdland  grounds 
against  the  malicious  injury  or  murder  of  any  of 
the  resident  or  visiting  birds.  And,  fully  aware 
that  disobedience  to  that  law  would  cost  him  his 
easy  position,  he  could  only  vent  his  great  grudge 
against  the  sleep-destroying  woodpeckers  by  the 
most  expressive  verbal  abuse  of  both  of  the  mixed 
languages  at  his  command. 

One  afternoon,  as  the  Birdland  Boy  came  out  to 
the  yard-stable  to  get  his  bronco  for  a  ride  about 
the  plantation,  he  found  the  yellow  hostler  enjoy- 
ing one  of  his  numerous  resting  spells,  sprawling 
on  a  mound  of  hay.  As  the  boy  came  up  the  man 


How  Mr.  Woodpecker  Got  His  Red  Head  239 

rose  to  start  carrying  the  hay  into  the  stall-racks 
ready  for  the  horses;  but,  happening  to  hear  one 
of  his  woodpecker  enemies  begin  to  do  a  little  ex- 
tra mid-afternoon  drumming  on  the  stable  roof- 
crown,  and  probably  hoping  to  prolong  his  latest 
interval  of  rest,  he  asked  the  youngster,  before  he 
had  time  to  call  for  his  mount: 

"  Didn'  I  never  been  tole  you  dat  liT  tale  'bout 
de  Peekbois,  —  w'at  you  calls  de  Woodpeck', — 
an*  de  Coon? 

"Non? —  No?  —  but  you  say  you  lak'  to  hear 
dat  tale  ?  —  Well,  I  gwine  tole  it  to  you  now,  me ; 
an'  how  Mr.  Woodpeck  he  git  dat  red  head  w'at 
he  got,  yas. 

"  One  tarn  one  big  Coon,  he  have  his  house  in  one 
tall  hollow  tree  in  de  t'ick  wood',  one  big  hoak 
tree;  dat  been  long  time  back,  yas.  Dose  tarn'  de 
Peekbois  head  same  lak  his  back,  his  wing,  his  tail, 
widout  no  red;  but  he  mo'  big  dan  he  is  now;  he 
beat  his  drom  mo'  loud  an'  long,  an'  mo'  soon  in 
de  mawnin',  yas ;  —  lissen  to  dat  woodpeck  on  top 
dat  roof  now:  — 

"  '  Cheer!  —  br-r-r-r-room! ' 


240     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"Now,  Mr.  Peekbois  begin  wid  de  sun  an' 
drom,  drom,  drom,  all  tarn  o'  day;  but  dose  ole 
tarn'  w'at  I  gwine  tell  to  you  'bout,  come  de  fus' 
break  o'  de  day  come  Mr.  Peekbois. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Coon,  he  lak  to  slip  late  in  de 
mawnin',  yas;  'mos'  all  night  tarn  he  ramble,  he 
hunt,  he  fish,  he  go  stil  de  roas'n'-ear  in  de  corn- 
fiel';  some  tarn  he  don'  come  home  till  t'ree  or  fo' 
o'clock. 

"  Den  Madame  Coon  she  look  at  de  tarn  by  de 
star',  an'  she  ax: 

'  Where  you  been,  Mr.  Coon,  to  come  home 
dis  tarn  o'  night,  or  dis  tarn  o'  mawnin'  ? ' 

"  Mr.  Coon  he  answer  to  her:  '  I  been  travel  far 
an'  work  hard,  me ;  I  been  hunt,  I  been  fish,  I  been 
stil  green  corn.  I  been  fine  some  grub  for  all  de 
familee,  w'ile  you  slip  all  de  night,  yas.' 

"  Madame  Coon,  she  spik  back :  '  You  been  loaf 
all  night,  you!  You  been  have  good  tarn  wid  yo' 
frien';  maybe  you  been  take  some  yo'ng  gal  to  dat 
Possum  dance ;  an'  you  leave  me  here  'lone  to  take 
care  de  chillun,  yas,  dat  w'at  you  been  do ! ' 

"  Mr.  Coon,  he  show  to  his  Madame  dose  roas'n'- 


WHERE  YOU  BEEN,  MR.  COON,  TO  COME  HOME  1)1S  TAM  O?  NIGHT?  '  '  ,, 


How  Mr.  Woodpecker  Got  His  Red  Head  241 

ear  he  been  stil,  dose  bull-frawg  he  been  ketch,  an' 
dose  bunch  o'  pat-de-chat  —  w'at  you  calls  cat'- 
paw  —  berries  he  been  pick,  to  prove  he  had  no 
tarn  to  loaf  w'en  he  gone  so  long. 

"  But,  Madame  Coon,  she  kip  on  gromble, 
gromble,  gromble,  an'  she  say  to  him: 

"  '  You  fils  too  slippy  an'  tired  to  talk  wid  me. 
Yo'  feets  is  tired,  yas,  but  not  wid  walkin'  so  far 
to  hont  an'  fish  an'  stil  for  yo'  familee,  dey  fatigue' 
wid  dancin'  so  long  at  dat  Possum  ball!  You  bes' 
put  away  dose  t'ing'  you  bring  home  an'  come  on 
to  bed.' 

"  Mr.  Coon  he  go  to  bed  quick,  yas,  widout  losin' 
de  tarn  to  ondress,  he  so  slippy.  W'en  de  Madame 
she  stop  her  gromblin'  talk,  he  go  to  slip  soon,  yas ; 
but,  also  soon,  de  dawn  come  red ;  an'  den :  — 

"  '  Cheer!  br-r-r-r-room,'  come  loud  an'  knock 
hard  on  dat  hollow  hoak  tree  where  Mr.  Coon  come 
home  so  late  an'  he  slip  so  soun':  —  'Cheer! 
br-r-r-room ! ' 

"  Inside  dat  hollow  tree  dat  drom  soun'  de  same 
lak  t'under,  yas. 

"  Mr.  Coon,  he  turn  over  in  his  bed,  he  stretch 


242     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

all  his  leg',  he  open  one  eye;  an',  wid  his  head  full 
o'  slip,  he  ax: 

"'Who  dat  knock  at  my  do'?    Who  dat? ' 

"  '  Dat  me;  Mr.  Woodpeck;  tarn  for  you  to  git 
up,  Mr.  Coon;  dawn  come  red  an'  day  come  soon,' 
answer  Mr.  Peekbois: 

"  '  Cheer!  —  br-r-r-r-r-room! ' 

"  '  Stop  dat  fool  knockin'  at  my  do',  an'  go  away 
f'om  dere!  —  Lemme  slip,  I  tell  you,  I  been  travel 
all  night  an'  I  too  tired  to  git  up  so  soon  in  de 
mawnin','  calls  Mr.  Coon  out  to  Mr.  Peekbois. 

"  '  Yas,  you  been  dance  all  night  wid  dose  yo'ng 
gal'  at  dat  Possum  ball ! '  gromble  Madame  Coon. 

"'Cheer!  —  br-r-r-r-oom ! '  go  Mr.  Woodpeck. 

"  Dose  HT  Coons  dey  all  wakes  up  an'  begins  to 
cry,  Madame  Coon,  she  kip  on  scold,  scold,  scold, 
an'  Mr.  Peekbois,  he  kip  on  beat  dat  drom;  so  no 
mo'  slip  for  Mr.  Coon;  he  go  mos'  crazy,  yas;  he 
jomp  out  de  bed  an'  jomp  out  de  do'  to  grab  Mr. 
Woodpeck';  but  Mr.  Peekbois  he  dodge  quick 
behine  dat  big  tree,  an'  he  fly  fas'  away  till  to-mor- 
row. 

"  Well,  t'ing'  kip  on  dat  way  for  many  day', 


How  Mr.  Woodpecker  Got  His  Red  Head  243 

yas;  but,  bimeby,  Mr.  Coon,  he  fix  one  good  plan 
for  to  stop  Mr.  Woodpeck's  drom;  he  make  him 
one  back  do'  in  his  house  an'  he  hide  dat  do'  wid 
some  bark. 

"  De  nex'  tarn  w'en  Mr.  Peekbois  come  'long 
bef  o'  de  sun,  an'  call  '  cheer '  an'  beat  *  br-r-oom,' 
on  de  front  do',  Mr.  Coon  he  wake  up  quick  an'  he 
ax: 

"'Dat  you  Mr.  Woodpeck?'  an'  w'en  Mr. 
Woodpeck  he  answer :  *  Yas  dat  me.  Cheer  — « 
br-r-oom,'  Mr.  Coon  he  say:  'All  right,  Mr. 
Woodpeck,  t'ank  you  for  wakin'  me  op  so  early. 
I  done  res'  well  las'  night  an'  I  gwine  to  git  up  in 
one  minnit.' 

"  Den,  w'ile  Mr.  Woodpeck'  make  his  '  cheer ' 
an'  beat  his  drom,  Mr.  Coon  he  git  op  out  o'  de 
bed,  an'  he  pass  sof  out  dat  new  back  do'  w'at  he 
hide  behine  de  bark,  an'  he  crip  slow  roun'  dat  big 
tree  to  reach  Mr.  Peekbois  while  he  so  busy  wid 
his  noise,  an'  ketch  him  wid  his  paw'. 

"  Biff !  —  he  hit  Mr.  Woodpeck  in  de  back  o'  de 
head  wid  his  hard  han'.  Mr.  Coon's  sharp  claw' 
skin'  Mr.  Peekbois'  head  till  he  bal'  same  lak  one 


244    Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

buzzard,  yas.  De  blood  come  red  all  over  de  back 
o'  Mr.  Woodpeck's  head,  an'  he  fall  to  de  groun* 
lak  he  been  kill'  dead. 

"  Den  Mr.  Coon,  he  grin  back  to  his  ear',  an'  he 
go  quick  down  de  tree  to  de  groun'  to  finish  Mr. 
Woodpeck  an'  his  beatin'  drom;  but  befo'  he  git 
to  him  Mr.  Woodpeck  he  git  back  his  sense'  an'  he 
fly  away  far,  yas.  An'  he  never  knock  at  Mr. 
Coon'  do'  no  mo';  an'  now  Mr.  Coon  he  kin  walk 
in  de  wood  all  night  an'  slip  in  his  bed  all  day. 

"  Wen  de  f edders  dey  grow  out  on  de  back  o* 
Mr.  Woodpeck'  head,  dey  come  red  lak  de  blood 
w'at  Mr.  Coon  bring  w'en  he  skin'  it  at  dat  tarn  so 
long  pas'.  An'  sence  dat  tarn  dey  stay  red,  lak  dat 
one  up  dere  you  see  on  de  roof,  w'at  go :  — 

" '  Cheer!  —  br-r-r-r-r-r-oom ! '  " 


XVII 

antr  lLon&fato 


IN  the  early  twilight  of  an  evening  in  the  latter 
part  of  Spring  the  Birdland  Boy  and  one 
of  his  school  friends  returned  from  a  fishing 
trip  they  had  taken  a  few  hours  before  to  a  pond 
in  the  back  part  of  the  plantation.  The  visiting 
boy  brought  home  their  conjoint  "  string "  of 
many  perch  and  a  few  green  bass,  while  the  lad  of 
Birdland  bore  home  a  muddy  young  snapping- 
turtle,  which  dangled  from  the  further  end  of  a 
stout  stick  swung  carefully  over  its  carrier's  right 
shoulder. 

245 


246     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

The  boys  had  found  the  turtle  on  the  bank  of 
the  pond  too  far  from  the  water  to  get  away  from 
them.  Somehow,  without  the  loss  of  any  of  their 
fingers,  they  had  managed  to  tie  the  dangerous 
little  monster  to  the  stick  by  one  of  its  crooked 
hindlegs.  Although  it  was  not  much  larger  than 
a  soup-plate,  that  very  ugly  young  creature  had 
a  temper  even  uglier  than  its  looks  and  a  fierce 
way  of  showing  it  when  given  a  good  chance  to  do 
so. 

At  the  foot  of  the  front  steps  of  the  mansion 
this  savage  prize  was  proudly  shown  to  the  family 
group  and  the  young  Doctor,  seated  with  them  on 
the  gallery  or  porch  above.  To  back  his  astonish- 
ing claims  as  to  how  hard  this  particular  turtle 
could  bite,  the  Birdland  Boy  laid  his  captive  on  the 
lawn  before  the  steps  and  poked  the  thinner  end  of 
the  stick  near  the  front  of  its  rough,  mud-stained 
shell.  Thus  provoked  the  vicious  reptile-beast 
would  shoot  forth  its  hidden  head  with  a  stroke 
faster  than  the  eye  could  follow,  its  hard  sharp 
jaws  would  click  together  with  the  sound  of  a 
closing  steel-trap,  and  the  stick  would  be  cleanly 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Long  jaw        247 

chiseled  a  little  shorter  at  every  ferocious 
snap. 

While  the  governess  and  the  little  Birdland  Girl 
did  not  enjoy  that  show  as  much  as  the  delighted 
boys  thought  they  might  have  done,  it  amused  the 
Doctor  to  the  full  degree  desirable  and  expected; 
and  when  he  had  laughed  at  it  more  than  enough 
to  satisfy  the  turtle's  excited  young  captors  he 
said: 

"  Now,  boys,  when  you  get  tired  of  that  fun  and 
take  your  turtle  away  I  will  tell  you  a  tale  of  a 
turtle  I  once  saw,  in  one  of  my  hunts  away  down 
in  the  coast-marsh,  that  could  bite  much  harder 
than  yours  and  hold  on  till  it  thundered." 

Then,  promptly  closing  their  show,  the  young 
fishermen  carried  their  sullen  and  snappish  trophy 
off  to  a  juvenile  "  zoo  "  in  a  remote  corner  of  the 
mansion  grounds.  There  they  had  a  friendly  old 
raccoon,  which  was  chained  for  the  safety  of  the 
chickens,  a  fragrant  musk-rat  in  a  solitary  cage,  a 
few  wild  rabbits  penned  within  woven  wire,  and 
several  tiny  alligators  in  the  water  of  a  washtub 
sunken  to  the  level  of  the  ground. 


248     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

After  the  boys  had  added  this  last  fierce  speci- 
men of  the  Louisiana  wilds  to  their  collection  they 
ran  back  to  the  house,  had  a  hurried  and,  perhaps, 
incomplete  wash-up,  and  enjoyed  a  family  supper 
—  hearty  enough  even  for  their  hunger.  Then 
they  and  the  little  girl,  with  Mademoiselle  the 
Creole  governess,  gathered  on  the  gallery  around 
the  young  Doctor  to  listen  to  his  promised  tale  of 
a  turtle  of  the  Louisiana  sea-marsh. 

"  All  of  you  know,"  began  the  Doctor,  "  that  on 
this  side  of  the  river,  opposite  the  upper  or  north- 
ern end  of  New  Orleans,  a  canal  starts  at  the  levee, 
and,  after  leaving  the  suburban  town  where  it  be- 
gins, and  leading  through  outlying  vegetable  gar- 
dens and  cow  pastures,  and  then  a  waste  of 
swampy  jungle,  enters  the  head  waters  of  the 
Bayou  Barataria.  That  canal  was  dug  a  long  time 
since  as  a  water  route  to  New  Orleans  for  the  red- 
sailed  luggers  of  the  Gulf-Coast  islands,  and  the 
boats  of  the  nearer  sugar-planters  of  Barataria. 
Through  that  same  bayou,  very  many  years  before, 
the  famous  pirate  or  freebooter,  Jean  Lafitte,  car- 
ried in  his  barges  and  batteaux  from  the  sea  to  the 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Long  jaw       249 

edge  of  the  swamp  west  of  the  city,  rich  bales  of 
silk,  fat  casks  of  wine  and  numbers  of  negroes 
taken  from  the  slave-ships  that  sailed  into  the  Gulf 
from  Africa. 

"  The  dark  waters  of  the  Bayou  Barataria  flow 
sluggishly  back  or  forth,  as  the  Gulf -tide  rises  or 
falls,  between  banks  covered  with  ancient  liveoaks, 
where  once  were  flourishing  sugar  plantations  and 
green  cattle  ranges,  all  of  which  have  long  been 
abandoned  by  men  and  reclaimed  by  Nature  for 
the  growth  of  its  crops  of  tangled  thicket,  trailing 
vine  and  coarse  jungle  grass.  Then  the  Bayou 
leaves  that  wooded  wilderness  and  enters  the  wide, 
tide-sodden  sea-marsh  to  finish  its  long  winding 
course  to  the  Gulf. 

"  Some  miles  below  the  last  of  its  bordering  live- 
oaks  a  shallow  and  narrow  little  creek  enters  the 
bayou's  wide  and  deep  channel.  As  crooked  and 
black  as  a  serpent,  that  creek  winds  and  crawls  be- 
neath rank  reeds,  and  mangroves  with  roots  like 
intertwined  water-snakes,  from  a  shoal  marsh-pool 
a  mile  from  its  mouth.  That  pool,  which  is  acces- 
sible to  the  lone  hunter  in  his  little  pirogue  only  at 


250    Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

the  highest  tide,  is  filled  with  fetid  black  water 
mixed  with  bubbling  marsh-mud.  It  is  surrounded 
by  low  noxious-looking  banks  covered  with  matted 
masses  of  rough  grass  flattened  to  the  ground  all 
around  it,  as  if  it  formed  the  bedding  for  heavy 
beasts  or  reptiles. 

"  Several  years  since,  as  I  have  seen  for  myself, 
that  hidden  pool  was  the  home  of  a  huge  snapping 
turtle  that  had  also  sometimes,  but  very  seldom, 
been  seen  by  the  half -wild  market-hunters  of  the 
marshes.  That  monster  was  big  and  hideous 
enough  to  make  the  few  of  those  solitary  hunters 
who  had  seen  him  more  than  willing  to  neglect 
him,  particularly  as  he  was  worthless  as  fish,  game 
or  meat.  His  shell  was  as  large  as  the  half  of  a 
wine  hogshead  sawn  in  two  lengthwise ;  and  it  was 
thickly  overgrown  with  green  water-moss,  and 
rough  with  rows  and  ridges  of  hard  knobs,  like  the 
back  of  a  big  bull-alligator.  It  was  scarred  with 
three  deep  parallel  marks  and  numerous  lesser  ir- 
regular gashes. 

"  From  the  front  of  this  enormous  turtle's  roof 
of  armor  plate,  at  the  end  of  a  long  mottled  neck, 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Long  jaw        251 

protruded  a  python-like  head  whose  jaws  were 
powerful  enough  to  cut  through  the  shank  of  a 
shark-hook.  An  overlong  serpentine  tail,  which 
was  notched  above  like  that  of  an  alligator,  trailed 
from  the  back  of  his  shell,  and  thick  bowed  legs 
stretched  from  under  its  eaves.  His  scaly  feet 
were  as  wide  as  a  man's  hand,  and  his  toes  were 
armed  with  talons  as  cruel  and  crooked  as  those  of 
an  eagle. 

"  When  the  tiger-like  temper  of  that  immense 
Turtle  was  roused  he  would  stand  up  on  his  stif- 
fened legs  until  the  top  of  his  back  was  higher 
than  a  tall  man's  knee.  Then,  with  his  horrible 
head  lifted  at  the  end  of  his  long  extended  neck 
ready  for  his  dangerous  lunge,  he  could  match  in 
looks  the  fiercest  dragon  ever  described  in  fable 
or  myth.  When  his  rough  wrinkled  neck  was  thus 
raised  it  showed  a  smooth  yellow  scar  just  behind 
the  back  of  his  hard  and  horny  head. 

"  After  his  night  ramblings  in  the  surrounding 
marshes  and  waters  for  food,  the  Turtle  would  re- 
turn to  his  home-pool;  and,  when  the  sun  rose, 
he  would  crawl  up  on  the  bank  to  bask  and  sleep 


252     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

in  the  warm  sunshine  until  the  day  was  done  and 
it  was  time  to  prowl  and  prey  again.  One  Summer 
morning  as  he  was  thus  dozing  ashore  he  was 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  something  coming  up 
the  shoal  creek  toward  his  home.  As  usual  at  any 
noise  signifying  the  approach  of  a  possible  enemy, 
or  trespasser  on  his  domain,  he  stood  up  on  his 
taloned  toes  and  lifted  his  head  its  highest  to  look 
and  listen. 

"  It  was  surely  something  large,  probably  a 
pirogue  pushed  by  a  man,  which  was  slowly  ap- 
proaching through  the  shallow  water  and  slushy 
mud.  The  noise  grew  louder  and  very  near.  Then 
a  great  knobby  head  and  neck,  together  a  yard 
long,  pushed  out  of  the  creek  into  the  pool,  and 
five  yards  more  of  the  broad  ridged  back  and  ser- 
rated tail  of  the  biggest  Alligator  in  all  the  Bara- 
taria  marshes  followed  his  intruding  head. 

"  That  musky  old  reptile  crawled  on  across  the 
pool,  with  much  grunting  and  groaning  making  his 
way  through  the  sucking  mud,  and  climbed  ashore 
at  a  convenient  distance  from  the  Turtle,  with  his 
head  warily  and  wisely  turned  turtle-ward. 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Long  jaw       253 

" '  Good  morning,  Brother  Hardshell,'  he 
saluted  in  a  husky  voice,  as  he  landed.  Then  he 
stretched  himself  comfortably  at  full  length,  and 
yawned  so  widely  and  pointedly  that  the  jaw-teeth 
of  his  two-foot  mouth  could  be  seen  just  as  plainly 
as  his  long  overlapping  fore-tusks. 

"  Old  Brother  Hardshell,  seeing  it  was  only  an 
Alligator  that  had  made  the  noise  which  disturbed 
his  morning  nap,  hissed  a  short  *  pshaw,'  and  but 
gruffly  returned  the  visitor's  greeting  in  a  wheezy 
whispering  voice  like  that  of  some  very,  very  old 
man  who  was  toothless  and  had  a  bad  attack  of 
asthma.  Then  he  settled  back  in  his  bed  again  and 
started  to  tuck  in  his  head  for  another  nice  doze; 
but  he  happened  to  note  that  the  Alligator  had  but 
an  empty  and  sore-looking  socket  where  his  left 
eye  had  fiercely  shone  the  last  time  they  had  met, 
which  was  many  years  before.  Therefore,  with 
more  short  wheezing  and  rather  cold  indifference 
he  questioned: 

1  *  Brother  Long  jaw,  you  seem  to  have  been  in 
some  quarrel  or  other  trouble  of  late,  for  when  I 
saw  you  last  you  looked  hungry  out  of  both 


254     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

eyes.  May  I  enquire  how  you  have  lost  one  of 
them?' 

" '  Oh,  Brother  Hardshell,  it  was  from  the  hor- 
rible cruelty  of  man! '  the  Alligator  hoarsely 
grunted  and  gargled  up  from  his  great  thick 
throat.  '  He  has  hunted  me  half  of  my  life,  and 
he  hunts  me  to  the  death  still,  although  now  I  am 
beginning  to  grow  old;  therefore,  with  your  kind 
permission,  I  have  come  to  hide  myself  in  your 
home  where  he  would  not  think  to  find  me.' 

"  *  Stay  so  long  as  you  disturb  me  not,'  shortly 
replied  Brother  Hardshell;  then,  pretending  to 
feel  some  curiosity  about  his  visitor's  affairs,  he 
asked:  *  But  why  do  you  not  kill  and  feed  in  the 
late  darkness,  like  me,  when  man  sleeps? ' 

"  *  Alas !  thus  have  I  done  for  very  many  years,' 
grunted  and  groaned  back  the  Alligator,  *  even  I 
have  long  avoided  the  light  of  the  full  moon  in  my 
hunting.  But  no  more  than  one  dark  moon  since, 
when  I  could  have  sworn  that  the  moon  then  also 
was  dark,  as  I  hunted  in  a  lagoon  far  from  here, 
I  beheld  at  midnight  a  very  bright  and  round  moon 
rising  above  the  water.  It  was  new  to  me,  old  as 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Longjaw        255 

I  am,  to  see  a  round  moon  rise  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  and  then  to  see  it  grow  larger  and  larger, 
instead  of  smaller  and  smaller,  as  it  rose  higher 
and  gave  much  more  light  on  the  water.  Wonder- 
ing at  the  very  great  brightness  of  this  round  mid- 
night moon  I  stopped  my  hunting  to  watch  it, 
when  it  burst  with  the  loud  noise  and  the  burning 
fire  of  the  thunder-iron,  breaking  the  bone  around 
my  eye  and  destroying  it.  I  was  stunned  by  the 
blow  for  a  little  time ;  then,  when  life  came  back  to 
me,  as  I  turned  to  escape,  I  saw  a  Man  who  came 
from  that  lost  moon  standing  up  in  a  dark  boat 
near  me;  and,  in  great  terror  and  pain,  I  sank  to 
the  bottom  of  the  water  and  crawled  far  away. 
Brother  Hardshell,  the  brightness  of  that  moon  of 
the  midnight  was  so  great  as  to  hide  that  Man  and 
his  boat  from  even  my  keen  sight/ 

1  *  Humph ! '  doubtingly  hissed  Brother  Hard- 
shell ;  *  this  is  a  very  strange  tale  you  tell,  Brother 
Long  jaw;  I,  who  have  known  all  the  ways  and 
changes  of  the  moon  longer  than  you,  have  never 
seen  it  rise  round  and  full  in  the  middle  of  the 
night;  and,  as  for  the  Man  you  saw  coming  from 


256     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

the  moon,  how  could  there  be  a  Man  in  the  moon 
when  the  moon  is  very  much  smaller  than  Man? ' 

' '  But,  'tis  true,  Brother  Hardshell,  as  my  blind 
eye  and  broken  brow  bear  witness,'  protested 
Brother  Long  jaw,  '  and  I,  who  once  boldly  hunted 
by  day,  now  hardly  dare  hunt  by  night,  because 
merciless  man  can  bring  his  bright  moon  to  find 
me  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness ! ' 

"  Still  doubting  Brother  Long  jaw's  strange 
story,  and  deriding  him  for  his  cowardice,  Brother 
Hardshell  scornfully  exclaimed: 

''Look  at  me,  Brother  Longjaw;  Man  calls 
me  Snapping  Turtle;  but  1  trouble  none  who 
troubles  not  me ;  if  any  try  I  bite  hard,  and  I  hold 
until  I  hear  thunder.  As  for  you,  your  jaws  are 
very  long  and  your  tusks  very  strong;  and  might 
you  not  slay  where  you  fear  Being  slain? ' 

"  *  I  would  slay  him! '  hoarsely  bellowed  the  de- 
rided Alligator,  heavily  lashing  the  ground  with 
his  long  tail  in  violent  rage,  clashing  his  great  jaws 
of  hard  bone,  and  hissing  between  his  interlocked 
tusks:  'I  would  slay  him,  but  his  cruel  thunder- 
iron  strikes  far  and  strikes  hard,  and  I  would  live 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Longjaw       257 

long;    and  hear,  Brother  Hardshell,  how  happy 
much  of  my  life  has  been  in  bygone  times. 

"  '  Sixty  years  back,  when  the  green  fields  of  the 
sweet-cane  grew  by  the  bayou  above  us,  such  fields 
were  full  of  singing  black  people.  There  were 
also  many  fat  cattle  and  hogs  to  feed  those  people. 
From  a  hidden  hole  burrowed  by  me  under  the 
water  far  beneath  the  bank  I  would  come  forth  in 
the  noon  or  night,  when  those  people  were  feeding 
or  sleeping,  and,  going  to  the  unguarded  drinking 
places,  I  would  take  my  small  share  of  such  good 
meat  as  I  could  get  there.  For  the  little  I  thus 
borrowed  of  the  abundance  of  Man  he  sometimes 
hunted  me  in  the  day  with  his  thunder-iron;  but 
for  many  years  while  I  remained  there  fairly  fed 
and  content  he  never  thought  to  harm  me  by  night. 
' '  But  the  time  came  when  I  was  blamed  for 
growing  too  fond  of  the  small  blackfolk  who 
played  on  the  banks  of  the  bayou,  and  paddled  or 
waded  in  the  edge  of  the  water  when  the  full- 
grown  people  were  working  in  the  fields  of  the 
sweet-cane.  But  the  few  of  those  little  ones  they 
saw  no  more  might  have  fallen  into  deep  water  and 


258     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

been  drowned  had  not  I  prevented  their  thus  dy- 
ing. Then  white  Man  and  black  Man  gave  me  no 
rest  by  day  or  by  night,  until  I  had  to  flee  far 
away. 

: '  Now  there  are  no  more  fields  of  the  green 
sweet-cane  and  singing  black  folk  and  swine  and 
cattle,  all  with  their  fat  and  tender  young.  The 
land  there  is  grown  wild  again;  its  wild  things  are 
too  watchful  at  the  drinking  places;  and  I  must 
hide  myself  in  the  marsh  from  the  face  of  man,  and 
feed  like  the  nimble  otter  on  mudfish  and  frogs,  or 
the  miserable  muskrat  on  the  roots  of  water- weeds, 
or  starve  and  die.' 

"  Still  ridiculing  his  strong  and  fierce  visitor's 
foolish  terror  of  Man,  Brother  Hardshell  wheezed 
him  this  advice: 

"  '  Toward  friend  or  foe,  why  not  be  guided  by 
my  first  and  only  rule:  "  Snapped  at,  snap  back?  " 

"  Grunting  testily  at  being  twitted  about  his 
lack  of  courage  so  much,  the  man-hunted  Croco- 
dile hotly  cried: 

;  c  It  is  all  veiy  well,  Brother  Hardshell,  for  you 
to  talk  thus;  for  yew  are  safe  because  Man  does 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Longjaw       259 

not  count  you  worth  the  cost  of  killing;  you  have 
no  hide  fit  for  his  use;  and,  as  to  his  food,  you  are 
too  musky  and  tough,  and  old  — 

"  '  Old ! '  hissed  Brother  Hardshell,  rising  in  hot 
wrath  on  his  stiff  crooked  legs  and  lunging  out  his 
head  to  the  full  length  of  his  neck  with  his  snaky 
eyes  blazing.  *  Old?  —  You,  a  mere  youth  of  two 
hundred  Summers,  dare  call  me  old!  —  If  you 
mean  to  insult  me,  come  on  and  try  me  and  see  if 
I  am  not  still  in  my  prime  — 

"  Here  Brother  Hardshell  had  to  hold  up  a  little 
to  regain  his  asthmatic  breath.  Settling  back  into 
his  steaming  bed,  after  a  minute  of  sullen  silence 
he  mumbled  with  less  excitement: 

"  'I  old?  Question  me  and  learn  how  clear  is 
my  mind  and  how  fine  is  my  memory/  Then, 
gradually  calming  down,  he  wheezed  on:  'I  also 
have  suffered  much  from  the  cruelty  of  Man, 
Brother  Longjaw;  but,  methinks,  I  have  paid  it 
back  in  good  measure.  Only  an  hundred  years 
agone,  when  I  was  feeding  on  a  shoal  in  the  bayou 
out  there,  a  heavily-laden  longboat  chanced  to  pass 
near  me  in  the  channel.  It  was  moved  with  oars 


260     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

by  men  with  bared  white  arms  and  hairy  brown 
hands  and  bearded  faces.  In  that  boat,  sitting 
still  and  sorrowful,  were  many  black  men  and 
women,  such  as  we  both  have  seen  later  working 
and  singing  in  the  fields  of  the  sweet-cane.  As  the 
boat  was  passing  slowly  by  me  one  of  its  many 
rowers,  beholding  me,  dropped  his  long  oar,  picked 
up  a  thing  of  three  prongs,  which  were  longer  and 
sharper  than  your  tusks,  Brother  Long  jaw,  and 
struck  at  me  hard.  You  may  yet  find  the  three 
scars  on  my  shell  where  those  sharp  prongs  cut 
down  to  the  raw  flesh  of  my  back.  When  the  Man 
who  had  thrown  the  thing  reached  down  in  the 
water  to  recover  the  long  handle  of  wood,  which 
held  those  hurtful  prongs,  he  left  his  hairy  hand 
with  me  as  a  small  token  of  our  meeting;  and  I 
took  it  down  with  me  deep  in  the  mud  to  finish  my 
morning  meal  when  the  misery  in  my  back  ceased. 
I  was  sorry  that  I  could  not  understand  the  many 
loud  words  of  lament  shouted  at  our  parting  by 
that  Man.' 

"After  stopping  a  few  more  minutes  to  catch 
his  breath  Brother  Hardshell  continued : 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Long  jaw       261 

"  '  Again,  if  I  remember  dates,  —  and  I  am  sure 
I  do  very  well,  —  a  hundred  years  before  I  met  the 
hairy  white  Man-friend  who  left  his  hand  with  me, 
I  had  another  like  meeting  with  a  red  Man;  and 
then  all  of  the  Men  I  saw  were  red,  and  none  were 
white  or  black.  When  that  first  of  my  adventures 
with  Man  took  place  I  was  not  more  than  two  hun- 
dred years  of  age;  but  was  well-grown  and  quite 
strong  for  my  early  turtlehood.  One  bright  morn- 
ing, when  the  time  of  the  crawfish  had  come,  I  was 
feeding  on  them  in  a  shallow  lake  a  month's  travel 
toward  the  place  where  the  sun  sets. 

'  *  A  young  red  Man,  with  several  others  of  his 
kind,  soon  came  wading  into  the  same  lake  with 
things  pointed  with  the  sharpened  shin-bones  of 
deer  to  spear  large  fish  and  turtles.  Those  men 
wore  only  the  feathers  which  were  on  their  heads. 
He  with  the  most  feathers  found  me  and  struck  at 
my  head  with  all  of  his  strength.  His  sharp  bone 
spear  made  this  yellow  scar  on  my  neck.  As  that 
Man  of  many  feathers  struck  he  uttered  a  loud 
whoop  of  joy  to  inform  his  wading  friends  near 
and  far  that  he  had  captured  a  great  Turtle.  In 


262     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

quick  return  of  his  spear-stroke  I  took  hold  of  one 
of  his  heels,  when  he  whooped  very  much  louder 
for  his  companions  to  come  and  help  to  get  him 
away  from  his  great  Turtle.  As  I  heard  them 
splashing  up  toward  me  in  great  haste,  and  I  cared 
not  for  the  company  of  more  than  one  Man  at  a 
time,  I  took  half  of  the  heel  which  I  held  and  went 
far  off  into  the  deepest  water  to  rest  alone  on  the 
bottom  where  Man  could  not  disturb  me.  When 
I  chanced  to  see  that  young  Man  who  had  made 
my  life-scar  again,  he  was  the  Chief  of  his  Tribe 
and  the  red  Men  in  their  talk  called  the  lame  Man 
"  Young-Man-with-the-Sign-of-the-Turtle ;  "  and 
he  wore  my  sign  for  life  just  as  I  wear  his  scar. 

"  '  So  much  for  my  fear  of  Man,  Brother  Long- 
jaw,  and  if  I  were  not  growing  so  very  sleepy  in 
this  pleasant  mid-day  sunshine,  I  might  tell  you 
much  more  about  these  other  scars  and  scratches 
on  my  shell.  Probably  some  of  your  former  rela- 
tions could  have  told  all  you  might  care  to  know  of 
them  had  they  lived  long  enough  to  say  that  they 
saw  them  made  and  helped  to  make  them:  —  but 
now  I  must  sleep.' 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Long  jaw        263 

"  Completely  tired  out  with  talking  at  such  un- 
accustomed length,  the  old  Turtle  took  in  all  of  his 
neck  and  head  up  to  his  filmy  serpent  eyes;  and, 
with  the  baking  beams  of  the  noon  sun  drying  his 
mossy  back,  dropped  into  a  deep  wheezing  sleep. 

"  The  long  Alligator-mouth  near  him  gaped 
with  hunger  as  the  single  Alligator-eye  watched 
his  heavy  slumber.  But  the  dangerous  Turtle  had 
just  plainly  hinted  that  those  many  scars  on  his 
hard  shell  had  been  made  by  the  tusks  of  Alliga- 
tors who  had  died  in  their  making.  Therefore  the 
biggest  reptile  of  the  region  could  not  quite  nerve 
himself  to  the  point  of  murderous  assault,  strongly 
as  his  hunger  moved  him  to  do  so.  It  was  hard  for 
him  to  look  at  his  sleeping  companion  and  feel  that 
his  own  tusks  could  never  pierce  that  shell-armor, 
while  the  Turtle's  grim  jaws  might  cut  and  crush 
their  way  through  the  plates  and  scales  of  the 
toughest  crocodile  body  or  neck.  But,  hard  as  it 
was,  the  Alligator  wisely  abandoned  the  idea  of 
attempting  to  kill  and  eat  his  slumbering  host,  and 
decided  to  go  to  sleep  on  an  empty  stomach  rather 
than  dare  death  to  get  a  full  one. 


264    Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"So  the  two  monsters  of  the  marshes  slept  on 
near  each  other,  with  whistling  wheeze  and  hoarse 
snore,  until  the  sun  sank  and  the  long  warm  twi- 
light faded  away.  Then,  as  the  cool  dank  mists 
of  the  night  touched  their  sun-warmed  bodies,  they 
both  awoke  at  the  same  moment;  and,  feeling  that 
it  was  time  to  find  their  suppers,  after  stretching 
and  yawning,  like  other  beasts  of  prey,  they  slid 
into  the  dark  pool.  With  the  Turtle  leading  and 
the  Alligator  following  close  behind  they  took 
their  tortuous  and  slimy  way  down  the  little  creek 
leading  into  the  wide  bayou.  The  full  darkness  of 
the  night  had  fallen  when  they  reached  the  silent 
star-sprinkled  bayou.  There  the  Turtle  went  one 
way  off  to  a  favorite  shoal  for  his  fishing,  while  the 
Alligator,  taking  the  opposite  direction,  stole 
slowly  and  stealthily  in  the  still  water,  near  the 
bank  covered  by  his  single  eye,  on  the  lookout  for 
some  drinking  animal. 

"Without  raising  a  ripple,  and  silent  as  the 
black  night  itself,  the  great  reptile  had  gone  only 
a  short  distance  when  good  luck  came  to  his  hunt- 
ing. 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Longjaw       265 

"  On  the  bank  near  and  abreast  of  him  there  was 
a  sudden  rush  in  the  reeds,  and  the  fierce  scream 
of  a  baffled  marsh-lynx  pierced  the  stillness  of  the 
night;  and  a  spotted  fawn  bounded  from  the  bank 
into  the  bayou  to  escape  the  second  spring  of  its 
ferocious  furred  assailant. 

"  In  fleeing  from  that  danger  the  poor  fugitive 
fell  into  the  very  jaws  of  death.  As  the  fawn 
struck  out,  swimming  swiftly  to  escape  the  dreaded 
Lynx  of  the  marshes,  the  ready  Alligator  turned 
and  lunged  after  it  in  one  tremendous  leap,  lifting 
his  great  body  clear  of  the  water.  With  that  one 
rush  he  reached  the  young  deer,  grasped  its 
head  between  his  hard  jaws,  and  crushed  it  to 
a  pulp;  and  the  ravenous  demon-reptile  com- 
menced at  once  to  tear  the  quivering  body 
of  his  victim  and  devour  it  in  great  greedy 
gulps. 

"  The  hungry  Turtle,  hearing  the  first  loud 
clash  of  the  closing  crocodile  mouth  and  the  fol- 
lowing splashing  of  water  made  by  the  death  con- 
vulsions of  the  deer,  hurried  up  to  the  scene  of 
slaughter  and  claimed  his  share  of  the  feast.  From 


266     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

a  mouth  stuffed  with  fresh  venison  the  Alligator 
mumbled : 

"  *  Mister  Hardshell,  you  did  none  of  this  kill- 
ing and  shall  have  none  of  the  meat.' 

"  '  Mister  Long  jaw,  as  we  have  begun  to  share 
the  same  home,  we  might  just  as  well  begin  to 
share  our  meals  also,'  angrily  hissed  back  the 
Turtle. 

"  They  had  many  more  hot  words,  hissed  and 
bellowed  at  each  other,  until  the  Turtle,  to  settle 
the  question  of  his  claim  for  a  share  of  the  prey, 
finally  took  hold  of  the  dead  fawn  to  bite  off  a 
mouthful. 

"  Then  the  greedy  Alligator  made  a  fatal  mis- 
take. He  stopped  his  gorging  to  gnash  furiously 
with  all  of  the  mighty  force  of  his  powerful  jaws 
at  the  disputing  Turtle.  The  terrible  crocodile- 
tusks  glanced  harmlessly  off  the  great  shell  shield. 

"  The  Turtle's  python-like  neck  shot  forth  with 
its  serpent-stroke  at  the  other's  reptile  throat,  and 
his  steely  jaws  cut  down  deep  and  locked  together 
in  that  dreadful  relentless  thunder-hold.  The 
throttled  Alligator,  desperate  at  this  horrible 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Longjaw        267 

clutch  of  death,  struggled  wildly  in  futile  rage 
and  fear.  With  his  long  flat  tail,  once  so  fatal  to 
wallowing  pigs  and  wading  pickaninnies  of  the 
Barataria  plantations,  he  lashed  the  water  into 
foaming  waves,  and  wasted  his  mighty  strength  in 
vain  struggles  to  shake  himself  free  from  the 
death-grip  of  his  foe. 

"In  all  of  that  furious  struggle  the  old  Turtle 
never,  after  his  first  stroke,  moved  limb  nor  claw. 
Tossed  above  the  water,  dashed  beneath,  savagely 
swung  back  and  forth,  he  put  his  full  faith  in  his 
fastened  jaws  and  hung  on,  waiting  for  the  fore- 
doomed end. 

"  In  the  midst  of  this  raging  one-sided  battle 
that  weird,  moving  full  moon  of  the  midnight,  told 
of  by  Brother  Longjaw  in  his  tale  of  woe  to 
Brother  Hardshell,  rose  over  the  dark  waters  once 
more.  A  broad  circle  of  its  bright  radiance  flashed 
over  the  glistening  wet  bodies  of  the  two  battling 
monsters  and  the  foamy  turbulence  of  the  water 
surrounding  them. 

"  A  boat,  silently  moved  by  muffled  oars,  and, 
bearing  a  man  standing  with  a  long  gun  behind  a 


268     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

luminous  jacklight  in  her  bow,  arrived  on  the  scene 
just  as  the  Alligator  gave  up  the  long  fight,  and 
lay  exhausted  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  gasping 
and  gurgling,  throttled  by  death. 

"  From  the  muzzle  of  an  Alligator-hunter's  gun 
held  but  a  few  feet  distant  from  the  back  of  the 
monster's  head,  death  came  faster  in  the  leaden 
bullets  that  smashed  his  skull.  And  the  days  and 
nights  of  the  biggest  and  most  famous  Alligator 
of  the  Barataria  sea-marsh  were  done. 

"  Too  wild  and  wary  for  successful  pursuit,  that 
brute  had  long  become  noted  by  the  professional 
hunters  of  two  generations  in  the  bayous  and 
lagoons  of  the  Barataria  coast-marsh.  At  last  he 
came  to  be  known  among  them  as  the  '  One-eye- 
Alligator/  And  it  was  only  through  his  having 
been  *  held-up  '  by  that  huge  Snapping-Turtle  they 
were  able  to  take  his  hide  at  last. 

"When  Brother  Long  jaw  was  thus  slain 
Brother  Hardshell,  perhaps  regretting  that  Man's 
thunder-iron  had  needlessly  interfered  with  the 
finish  of  his  own  good  work,  sulkily  loosed  his 
thunder-hold  and  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  bayou 


Brothers  Hardshell  and  Longjaw       269 

to  seek  the  dead  fawn  that  had  gone  down 
there  in  the  beginning  of  that  reptilian  battle. 
Probably  after  he  had  his  solitary  supper  he 
quietly  returned  to  his  home-pool;  and,  for  all  I 
know,  he  is  living  there  still  with  a  fair  prospect  of 
surviving  the  flight  of  a  few  more  centuries." 


XVIII 

H?twt0  JHorc 


PASSING    the    plantation    stable    on    some 
pleasure  bent,  in  the  middle  of  an  after- 
noon,   the    Birdland    Boy    saw   old   Jason 
seated  on  a  bench  against  the  wall  of  the  harness- 
room  in  the  Winter-sunshine.     The  purpose  he 

had  in  view  was  quickly  forgotten;   and,  avoiding 
270 


Mr.  Lynx  Hunts  More  Trouble         271 

the  delay  of  going  further  to  the  gate  of  the  stable 
yard,  he  actively  climbed  the  panel  of  its  fence 
nearest  him  and  ran  over  to  join  the  old  man,  who 
was  too  busily  occupied  on  some  small  job  to  see 
him  until  he  reached  the  bench. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Jason!  What  are  you  doing?" 
greeted  and  asked  the  boy,  together,  as  he  seated 
himself  on  the  same  bench,  not  too  near  to  inter- 
fere with  the  work  in  hand,  but  close  enough  for 
him  to  watch  and  admire  the  wonderful  dexterity 
of  the  wrinkled  black  fingers  as  they  plied  and 
plaited  eight  separate  strands  of  rawhide  into  the 
single  round  and  long  serpent-like  coil  of  a  cart- 
whip. 

Looking  up  with  surprise  and  delight  at  seeing 
the  boy,  whose  coming  he  had  not  heard  in  the 
deep  absorption  devoted  to  his  work,  the  old  man 
laughed  and  exclaimed: 

"Hi!  — dat  you,  Little  Mahster?  — What  I 
doin'?  Well,  I's  done  wored  out  my  ole  whup 
on  Ole  Abe  sence  dis  Winter  sot  in,  an'  dat  mean 
mule  is  gittin'  lazy  enough  to  need  a  whole  steer- 
hide  to  keep  him  gwine  a  righteous  gait  f'om  one 


272     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

New  Years  to  de  nex'  dese  days;  but  I'll  be  boun' 
dis  new  whup  I's  makin'  now  is  gwine  to  hit  him 
whar  de  hyar  grows  short,  an'  make  him  go  like  a 
good  mule  ought  to  go." 

The  old  negro  worked  and  talked  on  after  he 
had  thus  gotten  well  started  as  only  colored  folk 
can  talk  the  most  and  toil  their  best  at  the  same 
time.  It  was  some  time  before  the  Birdland  Boy 
could  break  in  with  an  interruption.  Two  or  three 
hours  before  at  the  dinner-table  he  had  been  listen- 
ing to  his  father  telling  about  the  rapid  approach 
of  a  great  comet  which  was  called  after  some  man 
whose  name  the  son  had  forgotten.  Much  inter- 
ested in  that  subject,  he  asked: 

"  Uncle  Jason,  did  you  ever  see  a  comet? " 

"What?  —  a  comick?  —  one  o'  dem  fiery  things 
like  a  gre't  shootin'-star  run  agroun'  in  de  sky?  — 
Why,  Mon,  I's  seed  more'n  a  hundred  comicks 
befo'  you  was  bawned!  " 

After  a  considerable  pause  to  untwist  with  his 
teeth  a  tangle  in  the  strands  of  the  half -finished 
whip,  the  venerable  seer  of  so  many  comets  con- 
tinued: 


Mr.  Lynx  Hunts  More  Trouble         273 

"  But  de  bigges'  an'  de  wusses'-lookin'  comick 
I  ever  did  see  come  along  about  two  yeah  befo'  yo' 
gran'paw  tuk  his  company  o'  soldiers  back  to  Ole 
Verginny  to  fought  de  Confederal  War.  Com- 
icks !  —  Mon,  dat  bef o'-de-war  comick  was  de  boss 
o'  de  breed !  At  sundown  dat  comick  spit  fire  f 'om 
de  Wes'  mos'  into  de  face  o'  de  moon  risin'  in  de 
Eas',  an'  it  switched  out  stars  wid  its  tail  I 

"What  dat?  — You  axes  me  ef  I  wasn't 
skeered?  —  Well  I  was  a  little,  mo*  or  less;  but, 
bein'  des'  a  growed  up  boy,  I  was  too  biggity  a 
young  fool  to  be  af eared  o'  much.  'Ligion  got  a 
good  strong  holt  on  most  of  us  colored  folks  whilst 
dat  comick  kep'  a  growin'  bigger'n'  bigger;  but 
when  it  stopped  growin'  an'  faded  an'  faded  till  it 
was  no  lurger  nor  no  brighter'n  a  little  Jack-o'- 
mah-lantern  hangin'  low  over  de  ma'sh,  dat  holt 
slacked  up  to  about  what  it  was  befo'  de  comick 
look  like  'twere  gwine  to  set  de  sky  afire. 

"  But,  all  dis  comick-talk  don't  mix  up  well  wid 
makin'  whips  —  here,  you  take  dis  slim  hickory 
saplin'  I  cut  in  de  woods  soon  dis  mawnin'  an' 
whittle  it  down  to  a  whupstaff  wid  dat  sharp  new 


274     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

pocket  knife  you  showed  me  yistid'y,  whilst  I  fin- 
ishes my  part  o'  de  job." 

That  suited  the  Birdland  Boy  perfectly,  and 
while  he  was,  with  careful  eye  and  busy  hand, 
shaving  the  bark  from  the  hickory  shoot  before 
trimming  the  wood,  the  old  man  stopped  his  work 
to  fill  and  light  a  corncob  pipe  as  black  as  his  face ; 
then,  as  he  puffed  contentedly,  he  resumed  his 
plaiting,  and  started  on  a  new  subject  as  if  by  mere 
chance,  saying: 

"  Along  about  de  fus'  dark  las'  night  Ole  Mr. 
Wilecat  walked  right  by  de  root  o'  dat  little  saplin' 
you's  whittlin'  into  a  whupstaff.  I  seed  his  tracks 
dar  des'  atter  sun-up  when  I  cut  de  saplin' ;  an*  he 
sho'ly  was  lookin'  for  mo'  trouble." 

"  I  wonder  what  new  mischief  Mr.  Wilecat  was 
up  to,"  observed  the  boy,  confident  that  his  re- 
mark would  lead  the  old  woodsman  into  a  new  tale. 

"  Well,"  replied  Uncle  Jason,  "  I  sees  yo'  han' 
stops  trimmin'  dat  staff  when  yo'  tongue  starts 
talkin';  now,  ef  you'll  wuk  an'  lissen  I'll  wuk  an' 
talk." 

The  boy  promised  to  follow  that  advice  the  best 


Mr.  Lynx  Hunts  More  Trouble         275 

he  could,  and  began  again  to  diligently  ply  his 
knife.  After  looking  at  him  with  a  smiling  glance 
of  approval  the  old  man  turned  back  to  his  own 
work  and  began  his  story  about  Mr.  Wilecat's 
hunt  for  more  trouble,  which  was  this: 

"  I  done  tole  you  dat  tale  o'  how  Mr.  Wilecat 
got  tricked  by  Mr.  Otter  an'  Mr.  Mink  into  losin' 
his  long  tail ;  an'  o'  how  he  was  fooled  by  Mr.  Fox 
into  ketchin'  rabbits  for  Madam  Fox  an'  de  chil- 
luns;  an'  now  I's  gwine  to  tell  you  how  he  run 
afoul  o'  ole  Jedge  B'ar's  co'te.  In  dem  times 
Jedge  B'ar  hilt  co'te  in  de  woods  to  settle  all  de 
'sputes  an'  cases  o'  sich  varmints  as  ha'  to  come  to 
law  or  be  tuk  up,  an'  sentence'  'urn  for  fightin'  an' 
'sturbin'  de  peace  an'  stealin'  an'  sich  doin's;  an', 
I  tell  you,  he  kep'  'urn  moughty,  moughty  straight, 
Jedge  B'ar  did. 

"All  de  yuther  varmints,  in  'ticular  dem 
smaller 'n  him,  hated  Mr.  Wilecat  wusser'n  p'izen. 
He  was  de  bully  o'  de  woods;  he'd  boss  'um  an' 
'buse  'um  an'  cuss  'um  meaner'n  a  steamboat-mate 
does  a  gang  o'  roustabouts  rollin'  sugar  aboa'd  de 
boat  in  de  night-time. 


276     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  Well,  one  evenin'  late,  whilst  Mr.  Wilecat  was 
prowlin'  in  de  woods,  lookin'  for  somebody  to 
pester  an'  some  kind  o'  trouble  dat  he  ain't  foun' 
yit,  de  smell  o'  fresh  hawg-meat  hit  him  in  de  nose 
all  on  a  sudden.  He  stopped  right  off  to  find  out 
whar'  dat  good  smell  come  f 'om.  Says  he  to  hisse'f, 
*  dat  meat  would  come  in  moughty  handy  for  my 
supper/ 

"  He  sniffed  an'  he  snuffed  ag'in  to  ketch  de 
scent  on  de  win';  an'  he  licked  his  mouf  on  bofe 
sides  wid  his  rough  red  tongue ;  den  he  turned  his 
big  yaller  eyes  every  way  in  de  woods  to  see  if  no- 
body was  nigh ;  an'  den  he  stooped  low  an'  croped 
an'  crawled  todes  a  pile  o'  dry  bresh  an'  dead  leaves 
he  spied  by  a  big  rotten  lawg.  When  he  come  to 
dat  breshpile  he  gazed  all  aroun'  an'  aroun'  de 
woods  ag'in  to  make  sho'  nobody  was  lookin'  at 
him.  Den  he  raked  off  de  leaves  an'  bresh  an'  on- 
kivered  de  ham  of  a  fat  yearlin'  shoat  whar  Mr. 
Pant'er  had  hid  it  under  de  rubbish  he  scraped  up. 
Try  hard  as  he  could  Mr.  Pant'er  couldn'  eat  de 
whole  o'  dat  hawg  for  dinner,  so  he'd  hid  de  lef- 
over  ham  for  to-morrow's  breakfas',  an'  den  he'd 


Mr.  Lynx  Hunts  More  Trouble         277 

gone  way  back  home  to  a  lonesome  cane-ridge  in 
de  big  swamp  behine  de  woods. 

"  Mr.  Wilecat  grabbed  up  dat  fine  fat  ham  an' 
toted  it  home  fas'  as  he  could  go.  It  lasted  him  till 
midnight,  but  along  todes  daybreak  he  begin  to 
feel  moughty  hongry.  But  he  was  af eared  to  stir 
f 'om  home,  knowin'  ef  he  happen  to  meet  up  wid 
Mr.  Pant'er  he'd  ha'  to  settle  de  butcher-bill  wid 
some  o'  his  own  hide.  Mr.  Wilecat  was  moughty 
big,  hisse'f,  an'  moughty  handy  wid  his  teefs  an' 
clawses.  But  Mr.  Pant'er  was  as  big  ag'in  as  him, 
an'  could  whup  de  hyar  off  o'  him  in  a  fa'r 
stand-up,  roll-over  fight;  so  Mr.  Wilecat  hilt 
down  his  appetite  as  long  as  he  could,  an'  staid 
home  wid  his  door  shot  tight  till  an  hour  befo' 
dark,  when  he  got  so  tormentin'  hongry  he  des'  ha' 
to  go  out  in  de  woods  ag'in  to  hunt  him  up  a 
supper. 

"  Soon  in  de  mawnin',  when  Mr.  Pant'er  went  to 
git  his  ham  for  breakfas',  he  foun'  his  meat  gone, 
an*  seed  de  tracks  o'  de  thief.  He  stopped  dar 
awhile  an'  laid  back  his  ears  an'  switched  his  tail, 
studyin'  how  to  ketch  de  thief.  De  trail  was  too 


278     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

cole  to  foller,  an'  Mr.  Wilecat  had  too  long  a  start 
to  chase  him  den,  so  Mr.  Pant'er  made  up  his  mine 
to  leave  him  alone  dat  time  an'  lay  for  him  till  he 
got  him  good  some  day  or  night  comin'  on.  So  he 
went  away  huntin'  up  sumpen'else  for  breakfas'; 
atter  which  he  looked  up  Jedge  B'ar  an'  had  a  talk 
wid  him  about  Mr.  Wilecat's  doin's. 

"  In  de  dusk  o'  dat  same  day  Mr.  Pant'er 
chanced  to  come  across  Mr.  Wilecat's  right  fresh 
tracks.  At  dat  good  luck  he  lifted  up  his  head  an' 
laid  back  his  ears  an'  hollered: 

"'Whoo-ee-yowP 

"  A  steamboat  whissle  couldn't  'a'  whooped  no 
louder'n  dat. 

"'Whoo-ee-yowP 

"Mon,  when  Mr.  Wilecat  hearn  dat  waul'  he 
bounced  up  in  de  air,  wid  all  his  feets  at  once, 
higher'n  a  man  kin  reach;  de  fur  riz  straight  over 
all  his  body,  an'  all  de  hyar  on  his  tail  stood  out 
like  a  cobweb-bresh. 

"  *  Whoo-ee-yow! '  yells  Mr.  Pant'er  ag'in, 
startin'  on  de  hot  trail;  an'  Mr.  Wilecat  put  out 
for  home  so  fas'  he  raised  a  whirl  o'  dead  leaves  an' 


Mr.  Lynx  Hunts  More  Trouble         279 

trash  aroun'  him  like  a  slycoon  o'  win'  was  tearin' 
thew  de  woods. 

"  Whoo-ee-yow!  Mr.  Pant'er's  gittin'  nigher, 
wid  Mr.  Wilecat  doin'  his  bestes'. 

"Whoo-ee-ow!  Mr.  Pant'er  is  still  a  gainin', 
an*  Mr.  Wilecat  knows  he  ain't  got  no  time  to 
reach  home  an'  bang  de  door  an'  shoot  de  bolt. 
What  he  gwine  to  do  he  dunno,  an*  he  ain't  got 
time  to  stop  an'  study  no  plan,  an'  Mr.  Pant'er  kin 
outrun  him  an'  outclamb  him. 

"  Whilst  he  was  lettin'  out  his  las'  licks  o'  run- 
nin',  lookin'  back  over  his  shoulder,  Mr.  Wilecat 
butted  smack  into  Jedge  Ba'r  whar  he  was  settin' 
down  on  de  roots  of  a  gre't  holler  tree  wid  a 
big  hole  in  it  about  twenty  foot  or  so  f'om  de 
groun'. 

'  Woof!  —  what  you  in  sich  a  fool  hurry  about 
dat  you  got  to  run  so  hard  into  hones'  folks  befo' 
you  sees  'um? '  grunts  Jedge  B'ar. 

' '  Oh,  Jedge,  good  Jedge,  please,  Jedge,  save 
me  f'om  Mr.  Pant'er;  he's  close  behine  me  an' 
gwine  to  murder  me,  ef  you  won't  save  me ! ' 
squalls  Mr.  Wilecat. 


280     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

"  '  What  makes  Mr.  Pant'er  want  to  kill  you? ' 
growls  Jedge  B'ar. 

' '  I  only  borrowed  a  small  ham  o'  shoat-meat 
f 'om  him  las'  night  an'  I  was  gwine  to  pay  it  right 
back  when  my  hawg-killin'  time  comes  aroun',' 
yowls  Mr.  Wilecat. 

"  '  Well,  ef  you  done  dat,'  says  Jedge  B'ar,  '  de 
onlies'  way  I  kin  save  you  f  om  Mr.  Pant'er  is  to 
hide  you  in  my  house  till  he  passes  on  by;  so  you 
better  clamb  up  dar  quick  as  you  kin  an'  jump  in 
de  door.' 

"  Mr.  Wilecat,  who  could  see  as  well  in  day, 
dusk,  or  dark,  looked  up  befo'  clammin'  an'  axed: 

" '  What  dat  honey  doin'  on  yo'  doorsill, 
Jedge? ' 

'  *  Oh,  I  offen  goes  bee-huntin'  an'  brings  home 
a  heap  o'  honey  in  de  comb,  an'  a  little  of  it  draps 
in  my  doorway  sometimes,'  answers  Jedge  B'ar. 

"  Whar  dat  hummin'  come  f'om? '  nex*  axes  Mr. 
Wilecat  oneasylike. 

" '  Dat's  des'  de  leaves  rustlin'  in  de  risin' 
breeze,'  grunts  Jedge  B'ar,  sort  o'  put  out  by  so 
many  questions. 


A  BUCKETFUL  O    MAD  BEES  WAS  SPR1XKLED  ALL  OVER  HIM. 


Mr.  Lynx  Hunts  More  Trouble         281 

"  '  Whoo-ee-yow! '  sounded  so  close  it  made  de 
tree-limbs  trimble;  an'  Mr.  Wilecat  clattered  up 
de  bark  an'  jumped  in  dat  big  hole  in  de  trunk  in 
a  hurry.  But  he  jumped  out  in  a  hurrier.  He 
had  hit  on  a  hive  o'  wile  bees ;  an'  when  he  bounced 
back  out  o'  dat  holler  about  a  bucketful  o'  mad 
bees  was  sprinkled  all  over  him  f  om  nose  to  tail. 
He  yelled  his  own  '  moo-roo-ow  '  f  a'rly  loud  whilst 
he  rolled  over  an'  over  on  de  grass  fightin'  de  busy 
bees. 

"  In  de  midst  o'  de  racket  Mr.  Pant'er  bounded 
up,  wid  his  big  eyes  flashin'  an'  his  long  tail 
flickin';  an'  he  stops  'stonished  an'  'sclaims: 

"  '  I  see,  Jedge,  you's  cotched  de  thief  befo'  I 
could  do  it.' 

"  '  Yas,'  grunts  Jedge  B'ar,  wid  a  solemn  sort  o' 
grin.  *  I's  cotched  de  rogue,  myself,  an'  I's  tried 
him,  foun'  him  guilty,  an'  sentenced  him  to  de  Bee- 
tree  all  in  a  few  minnits;  an'  I  guess  de  bees  has 
about  collected  to  cost  o'  co'te  out  o'  him,  so  I'll 
turn  him  -loose  now  an'  see  ef  he  ain't  cured  o' 
stealin'  shoat-meat.' 

"'All  right,  Jedge/  says  Mr.  Pant'er;  *  but  ef 


282     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

he  robs  me  any  mo'  he's  gwine  to  git  bit  by  sumpen' 
a  heap  wusser'n  honey-bees.' 

"  Mr.  Wilecat  got  up  an'  slunked  on  home  wid 
his  heart  hatin'  Jedge  B'ar  wusser'n  he  feared  Mr. 
Pant'er,  an'  his  hide  burnin'  all  over  wid  so  many 
bee-stings. 

"  Den  Mr.  Pant'er  an'  Jedge  B'ar  shuk  han's 
an'  bofe  said  good  night,  an'  Mr.  Pant'er  tuk  his 
own  back-track  an'  went  off  to  his  huntin'. 

"  Ef  I'd  'a'  been  dar  when  dem  two  beas'es 
parted  I'd  'a'  felt  like  shakin'  han's  wid  Jedge  B'ar 
myself  for  de  way  he  fixed  Mr.  Wilecat ;  bekase,  a 
long  time  back,  he  sarved  me  mos'  like  he  sarved 
Mr.  Pant'er,  but  only  much  wusser.  It  was 
dis: 

"  I  had  de  fattes'  little  shoat  I  ever  seed  ready 
to  roas'  for  Christmas;  but  two  nights  befo' 
Christmas  Mr.  Wilecat  come  an'  stoled  him. 
When  I  tole  yo'  Paw  about  it  de  nex'  mawnin'  he 
gimme  anudder  one  out  o'  de  plantation  lot  right 
off.  But,  as  I  was  gwine  to  ax  him  '  Christmas- 
gift  ! '  de  nex'  day  he'd  'a'  gimme  dat  pig  nohow ; 
an'  I'd  V  had  one  for  New  Year;  so  I  was  out  a 


Mr.  Lynx  Hunts  More  Trouble         283 

cl'ar  whole  shoat  by  Mr.  Wilecat,  an'  I's  never 
gwine  to  forgit  it  ag'inst  him." 

The  old  man  got  up  from  his  bench,  knocked 
the  ashes  from  his  burnt-out  pipe,  pocketed  it, 
squinted  at  the  nearly  descended  sun,  and  said: 

"  Time  we's  knocldn'  off  work,  Little  Mahster, 
gimme  dat  fine  handle  you's  finished  makin'  an' 
lemme  fasten  on  de  whup-collar;  run  to  de  yard- 
stable  an'  git  yo'  pony  whilst  I  saddles  up  Ole 
Abe,  an'  we'll  ride  out  to  de  pastur'  an'  bring  de 
cows  home  to  de  milkin'." 


XIX 

Host 


NEAR  the  close  of  a  raw  and  windy  day  in 
the  beginning  of  March,  the  coldest  ever 
known  in  that  part  of  the  country,  the 
Birdland  Girl  was  racing  about  on  the  lawns  and 
through  the  winding  hedges  of  the  front  grounds, 
enjoying  a  kind  of  game  of  tag  with  her  little 
black-and-tan  terrier.     They  were  having  a  very 

284   * 


How  Mr.  Wolf  Lost  His  Spring  Lamb   285 

good  time,  'specially  the  nimble  dog,  chasing  and 
dodging  each  other  in  turn,  and  the  cunning  ter- 
rier seemed  to  understand  the  points  of  the  game 
just  as  well  as  his  mistress  did.  In  the  midst  of 
their  romp  they  were  joined  by  Mademoiselle,  the 
governess,  who  was  usually  only  a  grown-up  girl, 
herself,  out  of  doors.  Mademoiselle  almost  out- 
played, and  really  outran,  her  younger  companion. 
The  bloom  of  health  on  their  cheeks  was  much 
heightened  by  their  active  exercise  and  by  the  bliz- 
zard that  was  blowing  about  them. 

Shortly  before  sunset  their  young  friend,  the 
Doctor,  happened  along  and  caught  the  somewhat 
disheveled  girls  at  their  lively  game.  He  begged 
them  to  let  him  join  in  it  and  share  their  great 
fun;  but  Mademoiselle  firmly  declared  that  it  was 
time  for  her  to  stop  and  go  indoors.  So,  after 
seeing  her  safely  into  the  house,  the  Doctor  de- 
cided to  remain  with  her  in  the  delightfully  warm 
sitting-room  for  an  hour  or  two. 

Left  alone  with  her  terrier,  and  resisting  his 
pleading  barks  and  persuading  tugs  to  continue 
their  exciting  pastime,  the  Birdland  Girl  walked 


286     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

to  the  front  gate  of  the  grounds  to  take  a  parting 
look  for  the  day  over  the  public  road  at  any  of  the 
passing  world  outside.  As  she  stood  there,  and 
was  about  to  return  to  the  house,  a  butcher's  cart, 
laden  with  spring  lambs,  jolted  by  on  the  river 
road.  Just  before  the  gate  of  the  grounds  its 
rough-looking  redfaced  driver  picked  up  a  poor 
little  perishing  lamb,  and,  with  cruel  force,  threw 
ft  on  the  road,  uttering  a  loud  expression  of  com- 
plaint at  his  loss  as  he  did  so. 

The  watching  girl  quickly  ran  out  to  the  middle 
of  the  road,  lifted  up  the  little  creature,  which  had 
almost  had  its  last  breath  knocked  out  by  the  hard 
fall;  and  then  she  called  to  the  driver  of  the 
cart: 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Butcher,  —  I  don't  know  your  name, 
—  are  you  going  to  leave  this  little  sick  lamb  here 
on  the  road  to  die  in  the  cold  night  coming?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss,  I  am.  'Tain't  no  earthly  use  to 
me ! "  gruffly  answered  the  driver. 

"May  I  have  it  and  try  to  save  it?"  eagerly 
asked  the  more  merciful  girl. 

"  Yes,  take  it  and  do  what  you  please  with  it, 


How  Mr.  Wolf  Lost  His  Spring  Lamb   287 

but  it'll  be  no  use,  as  it  is  as  good  as  dead  now," 
called  back  the  driver  as  his  cart  jolted  on. 

Huddling  the  helpless  little  lamb  closely  under 
her  cloak,  beneath  which  its  limp  legs  dangled 
downward,  the  girl  ran  to  the  house  as  rapidly  as 
she  could  bearing  such  a  burden.  When  she 
reached  the  mansion  she  rushed  around  to  the 
playroom  in  the  basement,  laid  the  half-frozen 
lamb  on  the  floor  near  the  fire,  and  ran  out  and  off 
to  her  "  Black  Mammy's  "  room  for  help  to  save 
the  dying  creature.  As  she  burst  in  that  old 
woman's  door  she  was  greeted  with: 

"  Laws-a-mussy,  Little  Honey,  you  does  look  a 
sight !  —  Yo'  frock  is  all  rumpled,  yo*  hyar  is  all 
tumblin'  down,  yo'  face  is  redder'n  fire,  an'  you's 
blowin'  like  a  hard-runnin'  boy:  —  no  wonder, 
you's  always  at  some  sort  o*  boy-play,  des'  like  you 
nebber  had  been  bawned  to  be  a  gal:  — 

"  Oh,  Mammy,  stop  your  scolding  and  listen  to 
me! "  broke  in  the  panting  girl.  "  I've  just  car- 
ried a  poor  little  dying  lamb  into  the  playroom  and 
laid  it  by  the  fire;  and  please  come  and  help  me 
with  it  and  we'll  save  its  life,  if  we  can." 


288     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

After  a  few  words  of  wonder  and  of  warm  pro- 
test at  this  latest  freak  of  her  dearly  beloved  Maid 
of  Birdland,  whom  she  had  called  "  Little  Honey  " 
since  the  day  of  her  birth,  the  old  negress  willingly 
hurried  toward  the  playroom  as  fast  as  she  could 
behind  the  quickly  returning  girl  to  take  a  look  at 
the  forlorn  lamb,  and  see  what  she  might  do  for  it. 
As  soon  as  she  saw  it  she  shook  her  head,  consider- 
ing its  case  hopeless.  But,  going  at  once  to  the 
lumber-room,  after  a  short  search  for  what  she 
wanted,  she  brought  back  a  wicker  clothes-basket, 
and  a  long-unused  baby  blanket.  Then  she  deftly 
padded  and  lined  the  large  basket  with  the  soft 
blanket,  and  bedded  the  little  animal  in  a  cradle 
fit  for  any  human  baby.  Then  she  went  off  to  the 
pantry  and  soon  came  back  with  a  bowl  of  milk 
and  a  dessert-spoon,  and,  showing  her  young  as- 
sistant-nurse how  to  hold  the  lamb's  head  in  the 
right  position,  she  poured  half  of  the  milk  in 
spoonfuls  down  its  throat.  Revived  by  the  warmth 
and  nourishment,  which  were  all  it  needed,  their 
little  patient,  in  a  short  time  was  able  to  hold  up 
its  own  head  and  bleat  for  more. 


How  Mr.  Wolf  Lost  His  Spring  Lamb   289 

Finishing  that  first  relief  work,  they  snugly 
covered  up  the  lamb,  and  it  quickly  fell  asleep, 
when  its  two  nurses  went  to  their  suppers.  The 
girl  hastened  back  to  her  charge  immediately  after 
supper,  bringing  her  brother  with  her,  —  as,  of 
course,  he  had  become  greatly  interested  in  the 
new  pet  as  soon  as  she  told  him  of  it.  They  found 
the  lamb  still  asleep,  and  their  old  Black  Mammy, 
who  had  returned  a  minute  before  them,  seated 
musing  before  the  fire,  while  its  flames  merrily 
leaped  and  danced  over  the  wood-sticks  with  which 
it  had  just  been  fed  by  the  warmth-loving  old 
woman. 

When  the  Birdland  Boy  lifted  the  blanket,  after 
having  taken  a  long  satisfactory  look  at  the  lamb, 
he  confidently  declared  that  it  would  be  all  right 
in  the  morning.  At  that  remark  the  ancient 
nurse  of  numerous  Birdland  babies  sharply  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Of  co'se  he'll  be  all  right,  my  young  Mr.  Doc- 
tor-man. I's  missed  you  an'  too  many  mo'  baby- 
f  olkses  not  to  know  what  to  do  wid  a  hongry  baby- 
sheep  !  By  mawnin'  dat  little  critter '11  be  as  strong 


290     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

an'  pyert  as  de  one  what  skipped  away  f'om  ole 
Mr.  Wolf  dat  time." 

The  Twins  were  silent,  and  all  ears  at  once. 
They  feared  to  break  in  on  their  ancient  nurse's 
train  of  thought  with  any  unwelcome  questions, 
and  drive  the  tale  of  Mr.  Wolf,  and  the  lamb  that 
was  lucky  enough  to  skip  away  from  him,  en- 
tirely out  of  her  mind  past  recalling  before  bed- 
time. 

After  a  spell  of  meditative  silence,  the  old 
woman  hitched  her  chair  still  nearer  the  blazing 
fire,  and  began: 

"Away  back  in  de  good  ole  times  dar'  was  a 
wide  green  sheep-pastur',  'mos'  half  as  big  as  dis 
plantation,  not  so  fur  away  in  dis  part  o'  de  coun- 
try ;  an'  it  had  a  moughty  fine  flock  o'  sheep  on  it. 
All  along  de  back  aidge  o'  dat  lurge  pastur'  was  a 
big  dark  woods,  whar  lots  an'  lots  o'  wile  varmints 
lived.  Most  of  'um  was  afeared  to  bodder  much 
wid  mens  an*  deir  belongin's;  but  Mr.  Wolf,  he 
lived  dar',  too,  an'  he  use  to  be  de  boss-beas'  of  'um 
all.  He  was  big  an'  black,  wid  bright  shinin'  eyes, 
an'  a  long  red  mouf  full  o'  rows  o'  tearin'  white 


How  Mr.  Wolf  Lost  His  Spring  Lamb    291 

teefs,  'zackly  like  de  ole  Wolf  yo'  Maw  use  to  read 
you  'bout  in  dat  Red  Ridin'  Hood  tale  when  you 
was  a  heap  littler 'n  you  is  now :  —  only  my  Wolf, 
what  was  bigger  an'  wusser'n  dat  Red  Ridin' 
Hood  Wolf,  dassent  to  try  to  eat  any  good  little 
gal,  ef  she  did  clamb  trees,  an'  ef  she  did  run  aroun' 
whoopin'  an'  hollerin'  playin'  wile  Injun,  an*  ef 
she  did  run  pony-races,  an'  ef  she  did  do  a  heap 
mo'  o'  sich  boy-frolics  an'  foolishness,  like  her  name 
should  ha'  been  Tawm  instid  o'  de  pretty  gal-name 
it  is. 

"  But,  to  git  back  to  Mr.  Wolf,  he  was  greedy- 
fond  o'  growed  mutton,  yit  he  hankered  atter 
Spring  lamb  still  mo',  an'  wusser'n  nuttin'  else  in 
de  worl'.  F'om  his  hidin'-place  in  de  skirt  o'  de 
woods  he  would  peep  out  at  dat  sheep-flock,  ram- 
blin'  over  de  pastur'  baahin'  an*  browsin'  all  day 
long;  an'  he  would  prowl  aroun'  de  sheep-pen 
nigh  as  he  da'st  to  prowl  mos'  all  night  in  de  dark 
o'  de  moon. 

"  But  de  man  what  owned  dem  sheeps  watched 
'um  all  day  hisse'f ;  an',  besides  dat,  he  had  a  whole 
pack  o'  dem  big  sheep-dogs  wid  long  hyar  air' 


292     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

p'inted  heads  an'  sharp  noses  to  holp  him  mind  his 
sheeps. 

"  Well,  de  fus'  lamb  bawned  in  dat  sheep-flock, 
in  de  late  wintertime,  got  jfco  be  moughty  fine  an' 
fat  an'  fresky  by  the  middle  o'  de  springtime.  But 
he  got  to  be  moughty  foolish  an'  hard-headed,  too ; 
an'  dat's  how  I  come  to  hear  dis  story  'bout  him. 
He'd  skip  an'  race  aroun'  de  pastur',  dodgin'  his 
mahster  an'  de  sheep-dogs,  an'  break  away  todes 
de  woods  like  he  was  gwine  to  leave  de  pastur'  an' 
go  an'  live  in  de  wildernis  wid  de  varmints. 

"  When  he'd  do  dat  away  Mr.  Wolf  was  always 
dar'  at  de  very  skirt-hem  o'  de  woods  waitin'  for 
him  to  come  on  de  las'  few  skips  fur  enough  for 
him  to  reach  dem  woods  an'  stay  wid  him.  But,  as 
good  luck  would  have  it,  de  sheep-dogs  headed  dat 
contrairy  lamb  always  des'  in  time. 

"Dat  lamb's  gittin'  so  close  to  Mr.  Wolf  so 
off'en,  an'  Mr.  Wolf's  des'  missin'  him  every  time 
when  he  was  sho'  he  had  him  at  las',  made  Mr. 
Wolf  so  hongry  he  des'  pined  for  him  an'  got  lean, 
lookin'  at  him  an'  waitin'  for  him  so  long,  an'  he 
grieved  hisse'f  mos'  sick  over  him. 


How  Mr.  Wolf  Lost  His  Spring  Lamb    293 

"  Well,  bimeby,  sheep  -  shearin'  time  come 
aroun',  an'  de  shepherd-man  and  de  sheep-dogs, 
an'  some  mo'  hired  mens,  rounded  up  all  de  growed 
sheeps  in  a  flock  an'  all  de  lambs  in  a  bunch  by!  a 
nice  clear  pawnd  o'  water  not  so  very  fur  f  om  de 
woods.  Dar  dey  washed  all  de  sheeps  an'  dey 
dried  'um,  an'  den  dey  clipped  off  deir  winter-wool 
an'  stuffed  it  into  big  bags  wid  de  mouf  lef '  wide 
open.  When  dey  got  de  fus'  bag  full  dey  drug  it 
well  out  o'  de  way  an'  lef  it  out  in  de  sunshine 
lia'fways  betwixt  de  wash-pawnd  an'  de  woods. 

"  Whilst  all  dat  was  gwine  on,  an'  everybody 
was  too  busy  to  bodder  wid  de  bunch  o'  lambs, 
what  does  Mr.  Smarty-lamb  do,  when  he  seed 
nuther  mens  nor  dogs  was  watchin'  him,  but  skip 
away  f'om  de  bleatin'  bunch  an'  run  off  to  de  bag 
o'  wool  an'  bounce  behine  it  clean  out  o'  sight  an' 
out  o'  mine.  Dar  he  butts  at  de  bag  an'  he  butts 
at  it,  an'  he  has  his  own  little  fun  till  he  gits  tired 
an*  sleepy  in  de  warm  sunshine.  Den  down  he  lays 
on  de  sof  green  grass  an'  draps  to  sleep  right  off, 
sounder'n  our  little  lamb  sleepin'  so  nice  in  de 
willow  basket  dar'. 


294     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

" "  Mr.  Wolf,  watchin',  like  he  always  was,  at  de 
aidge  o'  de  woods,  seed  all  dat  little  frolic.  He 
seed  de  lamb  run  away  an'  hide  behine  de  wool- 
bag;  he  seed  him  bounce  aroun'  an'  butt  an'  butt, 
an'  he  seed  him  drap  off  to  sleep.  But  he  looked, 
somehows,  harder,  wid  wonder  in  his  eyes  an'  hon- 
ger  in  his  mouf,  at  de  wool-bag  dan  he  looked  at 
de  lamb. 

"  '  Now's  my  chance ! '  says  Mr.  Wolf  to  hisse'f, 
seem*  everybody  so  busy  at  de  sheep-shearin'.  So 
he  crouch'  down  to  de  groun'  till  his  breast  teched 
it,  an'  he  crawl'  out  todes  de  wool-bag,  what  had 
its  mouf  open  todes  de  woods  an'  him.  When  he 
got  nigh  enough  for  de  las'  leap  he  look'  fust  at  de 
little  sleepin'  lamb,  den  longer  at  de  big  bag 
stuffed  full  oj  fresh  wool. 

"Says  he  to  hisse'f:  'Bar's  my  fine  fat  little 
lamb  ready  an'  waitin'  for  my  dinner-time ;  —  but 
dar's  de  bigges'  fattes'  sheep  I  ever  did  see  in  dat 
bag  already  kilt  for  me.' 

"  Wid  dat  he  jumps  at  de  wool-bag,  an'  grabs 
it  in  his  greedy  mouf,  an'  bumps  it  over  de  sleepin' 
lamb,  an'  runs  his  bestes'  back  to  de  woods  wid  it. 


How  Mr.  Wolf  Lost  His  Spring  Lamb    295 

"  When  de  lamb  got  woked  up  quick  by  de 
bump  o'  dat  bag,  he  gits  one  good  look  at  Mr. 
Wolf;  an',  seein'  how  big  an'  black  an'  fearsome 
he  is,  he  des'  flies  back  to  de  flock,  bleatin'  all  de 
way  an'  skeered  almos'  to  deaf.  De  mens,  hearin' 
him  a-hollerin'  an'  seein'  him  a-comin',  happens  to 
look  todes  de  wool-bag.  Of  co'se  dey  misses  it, 
an'  dey  wonders  how  dat  bag  o'  wool  got  away. 
When  de  shearin'  was  done  dey  tracked  it  wid  de 
sheep-dogs  an'  foun'  it  in  de  woods  wid  de  foot- 
prints o'  Mr.  Wolf,  de  robber  who  stole  it,  but  he 
were  gone  too  fur  an'  away  to  foller. 

"When  Mr.  Wolf  stop'  to  eat  dat  '  bigges' 
sheep  he  ever  did  see '  he  foun'  out  he'd  been  sich 
a  fool  to  leave  de  lamb  an'  steal  de  wool,  dat  he 
shet  up  his  big  mouf  an'  lowrered  his  bushy  tail  an' 
slunked  away  an'  hid  hisse'f  in  de  darkes'  hole  he 
could  find  in  de  woods,  an'  he  let  sheeps  an'  lambs 
alone  f'om  dat  day  to  dis. 

"  But  Mr.  Possum,  who  was  nappin'  in  a  bushy 
tree  nigh,  woked  up  in  time  to  see  all  dem  doin's  an' 
how  Mr.  Wolf  fooled  hisse'f  wid  dat  fat  wool-bag; 
an*  Mr.  Possum  gadded  about  all  night  in  de 


296     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

woods  tellin'  all  de  varmints  he  could  find  dat 
funny  tale  on  Mr.  Wolf.  Dey  all  larf ed  an'  larfed 
at  it  like  dey'd  bust  deir  ribs,  even  down  to  de  bull- 
frawgs;  an',  whenever  Mr.  Wolf  passed  a  pawnd 
in  de  woods,  or  stopped  at  it  to  drink,  de  teensy 
weensy  little  frawgs  would  cheep  at  him:  '  Spring 
la-a-a-amb !  —  Spring  la-a-a-amb ! '  an'  de  gre't 
big  bull-frawgs  would  holler:  '  Bag-o'-wool! — 
Bag-o'-wool! '  till  Mr.  Wolf  got  so  worried  he  ha' 
to  leave  dem  woods. 

"  When  de  lamb  what  had  tried  so  hard  wid  his 
oontrairy  ways  to  run  hisse'f  into  trouble  got  dat 
one  close  look  at  what  trouble  was,  an'  he  seed  how 
big  it  was,  an'  how  black  it  was,  an'  what  a  wide 
mouf  an'  long  teefs  it  had,  he  stopped  all  his 
triflin'  pranks  an'  his  stubborn  tricks  right  off. 
Dat  wakin'-up  at  de  wool-bag  1'arnt  him  moughty 
well  how  to  behave  hisse'f ;  an'  atter  dat  he  change' 
his  foolish  ways,  an'  he  growed  up  in  time  to  be  a 
sensable  'spectable  sheep,  what  got  so  good  an* 
steady  dat  in  two  or  free  yeah  his  Mahster  let  him 
w'ar  de  bell  an'  lead  de  flock." 

As  soon  as  she  had  finished  her  story  the  old 


How  Mr.  Wolf  Lost  His  Spring  Lamb    297 

woman  woke  up  the  sleeping  lamb,  gave  him  the 
remainder  of  the  milk  in  the  bowl,  tucked  him  in 
as  tenderly  as  if  he  were  one  of  her  former  more 
precious  charges,  and,  after  covering  the  burnt 
down  wood-fire  carefully  with  ashes,  she  exclaimed : 

"  It's  time  for  ole  folks  like  me  an'  young  folks 
like  you  to  be  gwine  to  bed; "  then  she  started  off 
to  set  the  good  example,  which  was  cheerfully  fol- 
lowed by  the  Twins,  after  one  last  look  at  the  re- 
stored lamb. 

The  brother's  confidence  in  the  lamb's  complete 
recovery,  which  had  been  expressed  at  his  first  sight 
of  it,  was  fully  justified,  as  the  lamb  was  all  right 
in  the  morning.  After  spending  several  months 
of  happy  lambhood  near  the  house  as  a  special  pet 
of  the  lass  who  had  saved  its  life,  it  was  reluctantly 
sent  forth  to  the  pastures  to  join  the  Birdland 
flock,  where,  like  the  lamb  of  the  old  Black 
Mammy's  story,  in  time  it  became  the  leader  of 
the  sheep. 


XX 

JFtntrins  of  tfj*  Wtyit* 


THE  brother  and  sister  were  enjoying  an 
afternoon  ride  in  the  fields  of  Birdland  in 
the  midst  of  the  haymaking  season  when 
they  saw  an  interesting  novelty  in  bird-life,  which 
later  led  to  the  telling  of  two  long  bedtime  tales  of 
the  forest  and  prairies  of  their  native  State.    That 
afternoon  they  cantered  and  raced  over  the  planta- 
tion roads  or  stopped  to  watch  the  gangs  of  negro 

298 


The  Finding  of  the  White  Dove         299 

haymakers  at  work  in  the  fields.  As  that  toil  was 
performed  with  much  loud  and  merry  talk,  with 
now  and  then  a  quaint  harvest  song  breaking  forth 
from  some  busy  black  squad,  it  was  well  worth  see- 
ing to  most  young  folk,  or  grown  people  either, 
who  happened  to  pass  that  way. 

The  haymaking  on  the  sugar  plantations  is 
largely  done  on  fields  in  which  cow-peas  were 
planted  during  the  preceding  May  or  June.  Just 
before  the  thick  growth  of  peavines  is  ready  to 
shed  its  green  leaves  in  the  autumn  some  of  it  is 
plowed  under  to  enrich  the  soil,  but  much  of  it  is 
cut  and  cured  for  hay,  and  hauled  out  of  the  fields 
to  large  haybarns  by  the  big  cane-wagons,  which 
about  two  months,  or  rather  less,  later  begin  to 
haul  the  harvested  sugar-cane  to  the  huge  mills 
there  to  be  turned  into  Louisiana  sugar  and  mo- 
lasses. 

It  might  prove  interesting  to  young  people  who 
have  never  visited  nor  lived  near  the  Louisiana 
sugar  district  to  learn  that  it  is  probably  the  only 
kind  of  farming  in  this  country  which  requires  con- 
tinuous work  all  of  the  year  around.  The  cane 


300     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

crop  is  planted  in  the  winter  and  partly  in  the  pre- 
ceding autumn  and  cultivated  during  the  spring 
and  most  of  the  summer;  the  accompanying  corn 
crop  is  gathered  in  the  late  summer  up  to  the  mid- 
dle of  September,  then  the  busy  haymaking  sea- 
son sets  in,  to  be  immediately  succeeded  by  the  fall- 
planting  of  cane ;  and  that  stops  only  for  the  start- 
ing of  the  harder  night  and  day  work  of  harvesting 
and  grinding  the  cane,  which  lasts  until  the  first  or 
middle  of  January,  when  the  whole  annual  round 
of  toil  must  be  gone  over  again. 

When  cut  for  hay  the  peavines  are  covered  with 
nearly  matured  or  fully  ripe  pods  of  cow-peas; 
many  of  these  are  shattered  out  of  the  pods  in  the 
rough  handling  and  raking  of  the  vines  for  curing 
or  hauling;  and  this  aftermath  of  peas  on  the 
ground  is  left  for  the  gleaning  of  countless  num- 
bers of  different  kinds  of  birds  from  early  autumn 
until  midwinter. 

As  the  Twins  were,  with  their  ponies  abreast, 
passing  one  of  the  recently  harvested  pea  fields,  a 
flock  of  more  than  a  hundred  turtle-doves  flew  up 
from  the  ground  near  them,  where  they  had  been 


The  Finding  of  the  White  Dove         301 

feeding  on  the  shattered  peas.  As  the  rising  doves 
stirred  the  air  with  the  musical  beat  of  their  many 
wings  the  Birdland  Girl  eagerly  exclaimed: 

"  Oh,  look!  Brother,  look!  See  the  white  dove 
in  the  middle  of  the  flock!" 

While  the  flock  was  hovering  in  the  air  a  few 
moments,  as  if  hesitating  over  in  what  direction  to 
fly,  the  boy,  also,  had  a  close  look  at  the  same  re- 
markable bird.  The  Twins  stopped  their  ponies 
so  as  to  disturb  the  flock  as  little  as  possible;  and 
it  flew  only  a  short  distance  from  them  and  again 
settled  in  the  field  near  the  roadside. 

The  young  riders  then  started  slowly  on,  and, 
as  they  were  passing  abreast  of  the  flock,  it  rose 
again,  fearlessly  hovering  near  them,  before  flying 
a  little  further  and  settling  again.  Very  close  to 
the  birds,  as  they  were,  the  Twins  could  see  their 
soft  dark  eyes  and  note  the  shifting  iris  sheen  on 
their  necks.  And,  near  the  middle  of  the  flock  flew 
the  white  dove.  That  bird  had  the  pink  feet,  the 
pathetic  eyes,  and  the  exact  form  of  its  dove- 
colored  fellows,  but,  without  visible  spot,  stain,  or 
tint  on  its  plumage,  it  was  white  as  snow. 


302     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Returning  to  the  house  in  the  beginning  of  the 
twilight  the  Twins  met  old  Uncle  Jason  at  the  rear 
gate  of  the  grounds  as  they  were  about  to  enter 
them  to  send  their  tired  ponies  stableward,  and  thej' 
told  him  all  about  the  dove  with  the  snow-white 
feathers  they  had  seen  on  their  ride.  Like  many  of 
the  most  venerable  plantation  negroes  Jason  prided 
himself  on  being  a  weather-prophet.  If  the  squir- 
rel's fur  came  out  thick  in  the  autumn,  or  the  down 
on  the  goose's  breast  began  to  grow  denser,  he 
would  solemnly,  as  well  as  safely,  predict  "  we's 
sho'ly  gwine  to  have  cole  wedder  dis  comin'  winter." 
Anything  unusual  in  bird  ways  or  animal  habits 
claimed  his  close  attention  at  once,  and  he  always 
had  some  omen  or  portent  to  offer  about  them. 

But,  as  ancient  as  he  was,  the  black  woodsman 
had  never  seen  a  snow-white  dove,  and  this  story 
about  one  stumped  him.  He  furrowed  his  brow 
with  many  wrinkles  and  severely  frowned,  study- 
ing out  some  self-satisfying  deduction  from  this 
strange  story  of  a  new  miracle  in  bird-life;  and  at 
last  he  declared: 

"  Well,   I  hearn  de  preacher  say  once  dat  de 


The  Finding  of  the  White  Dove         303 

scriptur's  had  it,  de  comin'  o'  white  doves  were  a 
sign  o'  peace  an'  blessin's  comin'  to  dis  bad  worl', 
an'  I  'spects  yo'  white  dove  means  de  beginnin'  of 
a  big  sugar  crap  for  ole  Birdland  next  mont'." 

That  was  quite  non-committal  in  the  old  man, 
and  his  prophecy  was  more  than  likely  to  be  veri- 
fied, as  there  was  one  of  the  finest  cane  crops  ever 
seen  on  the  fields  of  Birdland  plantation  that  sea- 
son, then  almost  ready  for  the  mill. 

When  the  Twins  told  the  after-supper  family 
gathering  about  this  new  wonder  of  bird-life  seen 
by  them  on  their  afternoon  ride  its  mystery  was 
removed,  much  to  their  disappointment  at  the  time, 
although  later  their  find  led  to  two  new  bedtime 
stories. 

It  was  their  father  who  accounted  for  the  bird's 
rare  plumage.  He  told  them  that  he  had  seen  a 
white  cock-partridge  or  quail,  a  white  cardinal, 
or  red-bird,  and  an  almost  white  blackbird,  and 
that  the  white  dove  they  had  seen,  and  those  other 
birds  he  had  mentioned,  were  what  the  naturalists 
called  albino  birds,  whose  feathers  had  lost  their 
coloring,  through  some  defect  or  fault  in  their 


304     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

body-glands  which  gave  them,  when  in  perfect 
condition,  their  natural  colors. 

Noting  the  disappointment  of  the  Twins  at 
learning  that  the  very  interesting  dove  they  had 
seen  was  not  so  much  of  a  mystery  or  even  a  rarity 
among  birds,  their  good  mother  tried  to  turn  their 
thoughts  to  another  direction  by  proposing  to  tell 
them  a  story;  said  she: 

"  Your  telling  us  about  that  beautiful  white  dove 
you  found  in  the  fields  this  afternoon  reminds  me 
of  an  Indian  legend,  or  rather  a  double-story  that 
I  heard  when  I  was  younger  than  you.  That  tale 
has  been  handed  down  to  different  sets  of  children 
in  our  family  for  a  great  many  years.  It  first 
came  from  one  of  your  great-great-grandfathers, 
who  was  a  French  officer  and  had  much  to  do  with 
the  Indians  when  this  State  was  a  French  colony. 
In  those  almost  ancient  times  all  of  this  part  of  the 
State  was  practically  one  great  forest  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Red  River  down  to  the  immense 
marsh  of  the  Gulf  coast,  and  from  the  Mississippi 
River  over  to  the  Atchafalaya.  To  give  an  idea  of 
the  extent  of  that  forest  it  was  larger  than  the  two 


The  Finding  of  the  White  Dove         305 

least  of  the  New  England  States  combined.  It 
was  sparsely  inhabited  on  this  side  of  the  Atchafa- 
laya  river  by  several  small  tribes  of  forest  Indians, 
while  all  of  the  prairie  country  in  the  State  was 
populated  by  a  greater  tribe  of  prairie  Indians, 
which  will  be  described  in  the  two  stories  about  the 
hunting  of  a  White  Doe,  which  I  hope  to  begin 
to-morrow  night.  It  is  too  late  to  begin  those  long 
tales  now  as  it  is  nearly  bedtime." 


XXI 

Host  $£wnter0  of  tlje  2TOjftr  Hot 


NO  man  living  knows,  or  is  likely  to  ever 
learn,  how  many  hundreds  of  years  old 
may  be  the  following  connected  legends  of 
one  of  our  Louisiana  Indian  tribes,  which  has  long 
been  scattered,  completely  lost,  and  gone  to  the 


The  Lost  Hunters  of  the  White  Doe     307 

happy  hunting  grounds  to  be  the  spirit-hunters  of 
spectral  herds  of  the  vanished  Buffalo,  and,  after 
the  chase,  find  the  welcome  rest  of  home  in  their 
phantom  lodges. 

Long  before  Bienville,  the  knightly  young 
French- Canadian  who  founded  Xew  Orleans,  was 
born,  adventurous  Spanish  explorers  from  Mexico 
had  reached  and  claimed  the  green  prairie  region 
which  now  forms  the  Southwestern  fourth  of  the 
State  of  Louisiana.  There  the  Spaniards  found  a 
numerous  tribe  of  Indians  calling  themselves  At- 
takapas,  who  had  probably  emigrated  ages  before 
from  the  plains  and  mountains  of  Mexico.  That 
name,  Attakapas,  means  Eaters  of  Men.  But  they 
must  have  been  cannibals  in  the  very  remote  past, 
for  they  were  not  when  discovered  by  white  men, 
or  from  time  almost  beyond  their  own  tradi- 
tion. 

The  lands  where  the  Attakapas  lived  lay  from 
the  wooded  West  bank  of  the  Atchafalaya  river 
over  the  rolling  prairie  country  to  the  Texas  border. 
They  called  that  stream  in  their  tongue  Atchafa- 
laya, or  "  The  Long  River,"  because  it  was  then 


308     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

the  lower  part  of  the  Red  river,  which  was  not  con- 
nected with  the  Mississippi  river.  Later  the  Red 
cut  into  the  Mississippi  ninety  miles  above  its  own 
former  mouth;  and  in  these  modern  times  our 
national  government  has  spent  millions  of  dollars 
to  prevent  the  rampant  old  Mississippi  from  leav- 
ing its  own  bed  and  rushing  madly  to  the  sea  down 
the  two-hundred-mile  shorter  channel  of  the  an- 
cient Red. 

The  Attakapas  Indians  thought,  perhaps  like 
some  other  natives  of  America,  that  the  river  near 
which  they  lived,  which  was  fifteen  hundred  miles 
long,  must,  of  course,  be  the  longest  river  of  all  the 
world.  Probably  they  had  never  seen  the  mighty 
Father  of  Waters,  which  was  about  three  times  the 
length  of  their  own  Long  River,  and  refused  to  be- 
lieve the  romances  told  them  about  the  bigger 
stream  by  visitors  from  other  tribes  who  dwelt  on 
its  banks. 

The  verdant  prairies  of  the  Attakapas  country 
were  full  of  buffalo  and  deer,  and  the  great  forest 
on  the  West  bank  contained  bears,  timber-wolves, 
wildcats  without  number,  and  reptiles  and  serpents 


The  Lost  Hunters  of  the  White  Doe     309 

of  monstrous  size,  according  to  the  legendary  lore 
of  the  lost  tribe. 

At  the  time  of  this  particular  legend  the  Attaka- 
pas  Indians  were  ruled  by  a  chief  named  Notonka, 
who  was  the  father  of  the  finest  looking  woman  in 
all  their  tribe.  Sartartia,  she  was  called,  which  is 
the  Indian  name  for  the  flower  of  the  pumpkin 
vine.  Her  face  of  reddish  gold  was  almost  as  bril- 
liant as  the  flaunting  bloom  of  the  flower  for  which 
she  was  named.  She  was  a  tall,  lithe  and  flaming 
beauty,  with  big  flashing  eyes,  and  with  raven  hair 
flowing  over  her  rounded  form  and  falling  to  the 
beaded  fringe  of  her  short  fawn-skin  skirt. 

But  Sartartia,  who  had  then  reached  the  full 
ripeness  of  twenty  summers,  with  all  of  her  beauty 
of  face  and  form,  possessed  a  heart  which  was, 
strange  to  say,  as  indifferent  to  the  love  of  man  as 
the  golden  fruit  of  the  pumpkin  vine.  Ponies, 
blankets  and  bottles  of  rum  being  then  unknown 
to  the  tribe,  her  parents  had  never  put  her  up  in  the 
young  squaw  market,  and  she  was  permitted  to 
make  her  own  free  choice  of  a  mate. 

But  that  cold  and  haughty  daughter  of  a  chief 


310     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

had  suitors  from  near  and  far,  as  she  was  very 
beautiful  and  desirable  according  to  the  standard 
of  savage  taste.  And  she  was  as  cruel  as  she  was 
cold.  Conscious  of  the  great  power  of  her  charms, 
her  chief  pleasure  was  in  employing  them  for  the 
torment  of  men.  She  would  lead  her  lovers  on  and 
on,  to  the  very  verge  of  consent,  deluding  them 
with  fair  hopes  and  fond  dreams,  then  she  would 
lightly  throw  them  over  that  verge  into  the  dark 
depths  of  despair.  Or  she  would  set  them  impossi- 
ble tasks,  promising  herself  as  the  prize  of  their  ac- 
complishment. Finally,  rinding  that  the  many 
suitors  for  her  favor  were  disheartened  and  cooled 
by  continual  failure,  she  seemed  to  become  less  ex- 
acting and  made  this  promise: 

"  He  who  brings  me  the  heart  of  the  White  Doe 
that  lives  in  the  forest  of  the  Long  River  may  win 
mine  and  wed  me." 

Sartartia  secretly  knew  that  this  was  the  most 
difficult  ordeal  to  which  her  wooers  could  be  sub- 
jected, for  Metumka,  the  very  wise  old  Medicine- 
Man  of  the  tribe,  had  told  her  why  it  was  so.  De- 
spite his  many  years,  Metumka  had  been  bewitched 


The  Lost  Hunters  of  the  White  Doe     311 

by  her  beauty,  and  he  had  informed  her,  and  her 
alone,  in  the  sacred  confidence  of  his  craft,  that  the 
White  Doe,  which  had  been  sometimes,  although 
very  rarely,  seen  during  many  years  by  truthful 
hunters  of  the  tribe,  was  really  a  spirit-deer  beyond 
the  power  of  death  or  harm  from  human  hand. 

The  numerous  ardent  lovers  who  went  forth  into 
the  great  forest  to  hunt  its  haunting  White  Doe 
found  that  fleet  female  deer  even  more  elusive  than 
the  young  woman  who  had  sent  them  on  its  weary- 
ing quest;  and,  one  by  one,  they  gave  up  their 
hopeless  chase  of  the  wild  doe  and  the  chief's 
daughter.  Then,  some  time  after  the  last  of  her 
own  tribesmen  had  abandoned  this  futile  double 
chase,  a  stranger  came,  a  moon's  march  from  the 
North,  to  try  his  hand  and  skill  in  the  hunting  of 
both  prizes;  for  the  fame  of  The  Pumpkin 
Flower's  beauty  and  the  terms  of  its  winning  had 
traveled  to  the  lands  of  far  tribes. 

The  name  of  this  new  suitor  was  Loosa,  who  was 
a  young  chief  of  the  Tusca-Loosas,  or  Black  War- 
riors. As  his  name  implied,  he  was  black  in  out- 
ward appearance  as  well  as  in  character.  His  lim- 


312     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

ited  raiment,  the  skin  of  a  black  wolf  with  the  hair 
outside,  was  worn  over  his  shoulders  and  back,  ter- 
minating at  the  bottom  in  the  original  brute's 
bushy  tail.  Hooded  over  his  head  was  the  neck- 
skin  of  the  wolf,  with  its  less  evil-looking  stuffed 
head  and  gleaming  fangs  peaked  over  the  human 
savage's  brow.  Fastened  above  this  wolfish  head- 
gear was  a  hideous  crest  formed  of  the  lifted  wings 
of  the  black  vulture.  Loosa's  moccasins  were 
made  of  the  skin  of  the  venomous  black  serpent  of 
the  same  name;  the  large  extent  of  his  own  bare 
skin  was  painted  black;  and  he  bore  in  his  hand  a 
black  bow,  and  at  his  waist  a  quiver  of  black  ar- 
rows. All  of  this  selection  of  black  was  to  signify 
the  spirit  of  black  Hate  which  hopes  for  death  to 
the  hunted  in  the  chase  or  in  war. 

Heralded  as  the  most  hopeful  son  of  the  chief 
of  another  great  tribe,  and  arousing  intense  ad- 
miration at  his  courting  costume,  Loosa  was  roy- 
ally welcomed  by  his  Attakapas  hosts.  They 
feasted  him  by  day  and  honored  him  by  night  with 
three  of  their  most  noted  tribal  dances :  that  of  the 
Black  Wolf,  which  throttles  its  prey;  that  of  the 


The  Lost  Hunters  of  the  White  Doe     313 

Black  Serpent,  which  stings  it  to  death;  and  that 
of  the  Black  Vulture,  which  devours  it  dead.  In 
the  manner  of  their  remote  kinsmen,  the  Zuni  and 
the  Moqui  of  Mexico,  as  they  leaped  and  whirled 
about  in  the  red  flare  and  black  smoke  of  a  hundred 
flaming  torches,  they  simulated  the  necessary  howl- 
ing, throttling,  hissing,  stinging,  flapping  and  de- 
vouring, in  horrible  chant  and  hideous  pantomime. 
Deeming  Loosa  a  very  big  Indian,  they  gave  him  a 
very  big  time. 

The  Pumpkin  Flower,  who  was  an  honored 
watcher  of  the  dancing  men,  became  quite  gracious 
toward  the  Black  Warrior  in  the  intervals  of  rest ; 
and  at  the  close  of  the  wild  dance  she  bade  him  go 
forth  quickly  and  bring  her  the  heart  of  the 
White  Doe  that  he  might  take  her  back  home  his 
bride. 

Then,  at  midnight,  Metumka,  the  old  Medicine- 
Man,  conducted  him  into  the  hidden  sanctity  of  his 
mystic  lodge.  There  he  dipped  the  barbs  of 
Loosa's  black  arrows  in  the  preserved  venom  of 
numerous  black  snakes,  blessed  the  poisoned  shafts, 
and  promised  the  swarthy  bowman  the  certainty  of 


314     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

success  on  his  mission  of  death  to  the  White  Doe. 
Then  the  cunning  old  sorcerer  privately  put  a 
counter-spell  of  his  most  powerful  magic  on  the 
whole  proceeding;  for  the  favor  shown  this 
stranger  by  Sartartia  had  fired  his  foolish  old 
heart  with  jealous  hatred.  Thus  when  he  finished 
his  secret  incantations  and  sped  Loosa  to  his  hunt- 
ing with  a  smiling  farewell,  such  smiling  came 
from  the  feeling  that  the  parting  would  be  final. 

Loosa,  transposed  into  the  Black  Hunter,  in  the 
last  of  the  night's  darkness,  entered  the  great 
forest  when  its  sleeping  silence  was  softly  broken 
only  by  the  patter  of  dew-drops,  falling  like  tears 
from  the  living  leaves  above  over  the  dead  leaves 
lying  below.  As  the  first  of  the  dawn-light  ap- 
peared, tautly  stringing  his  black  bow,  and  finger- 
ing its  vulture-feathered  arrow,  he  sought  the  trail 
of  the  doomed  White  Doe.  When  the  light  had 
grown  stronger  he  found  the  fresh  footprints  of  a 
female  deer  pressing  the  fallen  leaves  too  lightly  to 
disturb  the  dew-wet  gossamer  webs  of  the  ground- 
spiders  in  her  path.  With  hunting  eyes  true  as  the 
bloodhound  nose,  he  followed  that  faint  trail  for 


The  Lost  Hunters  of  the  White  Doe     315 

miles  and  miles  toward  the  heart  of  the  forest, 
moving  as  silent  as  the  shadows  of  the  trees  against 
the  rising  sun. 

At  last,  far  ahead  in  the  gloom,  which  still 
lingered  in  the  forest  as  if  fearing  to  follow  the 
departed  Night  beyond,  Loosa  caught  sight  of  a 
dim  white  form.  Whether  it  were  merely  a  fancy 
of  his  over-strained  vision,  or  a  living  object,  he 
could  not  at  first  determine. 

Nearer  he  stole,  and  still  nearer,  stopping  every 
few  steps  to  look  more  closely.  The  spectral 
white  form,  which  he  might  have  at  first  fancied 
to  be  but  a  wisp  of  mist,  became  more  distinct. 
The  deer  figure,  the  graceful  neck  and  head, 
and  the  delicate  limbs  gradually  took  definite 
shape. 

Nearer  Loosa  silently  glided,  warily  and  deadly 
as  had  been  the  way  of  the  sinuous  black  serpent 
whose  skin  covered  his  noiseless  feet. 

The  lovely  liquid  eyes  of  the  hunted  animal 
turned,  as  if  too  late,  to  look  wonderingly  at  the 
human  hunter  of  its  solitude.  As  the  mystified 
Doe  never  moved,  Loosa,  to  make  sure  of  his  kill, 


316     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

stalked  her  to  within  short  bowshot.  Then  he  bent 
his  black  weapon  and  sped  the  loosed  barb  of  death 
on  its  lightning  way. 

The  venomed  shaft  struck  the  snowy  side  close 
behind  the  shoulder.  It  rebounded  without  visible 
hurt;  and  the  beautiful  creature  vanished  as 
silently  as  if  it  really  had  been  formed  of  the  forest 
mist  for  which  it  had  been  at  first  mistaken. 

Loosa,  motionless  with  amazement,  vainly 
looked  for  the  deer  in  flight,  and  then  another  and 
a  greater  marvel  happened.  The  darkness  of 
Night  returned  to  the  forest,  and,  rapidly  ap- 
proaching the  terrified  hunter,  there  came  a 
mighty  noise  like  the  roaring  and  hissing  of  an 
overwhelming  tornado.  A  huge  phantom-ser- 
pent, formed  of  the  winds  and  their  black  vapors, 
lashing  leaves,  limbs  and  trees  down  to  the  earth 
in  its  terrible  path,  rushed  upon  the  doomed  man, 
and,  winding  its  twisting  coils  about  him,  carried 
him  off  to  some  hidden  domain  of  the  tempest 
where  no  human  foot  might  dare  to  tread. 

A  few  moons  after  the  mysterious  disappear- 
ance of  Loosa  of  the  Black  Warriors,  or  his  taking 


''  CARRIED    HIM    OFF   TO    SOME    HIDDEN    DOMAIN    OF   THE    TEMPEST." 


The  Lost  Hunters  of  the  White  Doe     317 

off  by  the  fabled  tornado,  came  another  suitor  of 
Sartartia. 

This  was  Homa  of  the  Tusca-Homas,  the  red- 
dest of  the  Red  Warriors.  As  Loosa  had  worn 
black,  Homa's  favorite  color  was  red.  He  was 
robed,  as  far  as  it  would  go,  in  the  skin  of  a  red 
fox,  crested  with  the  red  hawk's  wings,  and  much 
vermilion  paint  was  wasted  in  tinting  more 
brightly  his  tawny  red  skin. 

This  coloring  was  chosen  as  the  tribal  symbol  of 
Cruelty,  and  by  Homa,  particularly,  to  show  the 
admiring  natives  how  ready  he  was  to  shed  blood 
whenever  and  wherever  he  might  find  victims  to 
furnish  it. 

The  appreciative  Attakapas  duly  feasted 
Homa,  also,  and  honored  him  further  with  the 
tribal  dances  of  the  Red  Fox,  the  Red  Hawk,  and 
the  Coral  Serpent,  to  such  vocal  music  and  mim- 
icry as  the  bark  of  the  beast,  the  scream  of  the  bird 
and  the  bite  of  the  snake.  The  fickle  Pumpkin 
Flower  greeted  the  congenial  Red  Warrior  very 
graciously.  At  the  end  of  the  final  snake-dance 
she  softly  whispered  to  him  that  he  might  forego 


318     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

the  hard  ordeal  of  hunting  the  White  Doe,  as  he 
had  already  won  her  own  heart.  But  Homa  felt 
in  honor  bound  to  comply  with  that  condition,  and, 
besides,  disliked  losing  the  least  chance  of  spilling 
blood,  even  were  it  but  an  animal's. 

Thus,  at  midnight,  the  red  man  and  the  rosy 
maid  parted.  And  the  watchful  Metumka,  who 
had  overheard  those  tender  whispers  to  Sartartia's 
most  favored  lover,  took  Homa  into  his  medicine- 
lodge,  poisoned  his  arrows  with  the  fatal  venom 
of  Coral-snakes,  incanted  over  him,  applied  hitf 
secret  spell  of  counter-magic,  and  dismissed  the 
Red  Hunter  on  his  errand  with  a  blessing  from 
his  mouth  and  a  baleful  curse  from  the  bottom  of 
his  heart. 

When  Homa  reached  the  forest  of  the  Long 
River  the  blush  of  the  dawn  was  as  deeply  red  as 
if  the  eastern  sky  were  stained  with  blood.  Its 
glow  bathed  all  of  the  upper  forest  foliage,  and, 
dripping  down  through  openings  among  the 
leaves,  it  sprinkled  and  splashed  the  ground  below 
with  dark  crimson  spots.  Although  this  general 
blood-hue  of  sky  and  earth  but  heralded  an  angry 


The  Lost  Hunters  of  the  White  Doe     319 

day,  Homa  hailed  it  as  a  happy  omen  of  success. 
He  rejoiced  that  the  Great  Spirit  was  good  to 
him  in  painting  the  blood-symbol  on  sky  and  land ; 
and  he  boasted  to  himself  that  he,  Homa  of  the 
Tusca-Homas,  was  surely  going  to  bring  shame 
to  all  of  the  preceding  hunters,  and  tear  out  the 
bleeding  heart  of  the  White  Doe. 

Equally  skilled  in  woodcraft  with  the  lost 
hunter  of  the  Tusca-Loosa,  he  quickly  found  the 
faint  trail  he  sought  and  followed  it  into  the 
depths  of  the  dense  forest. 

Again  the  dim  hunted  form  was  found  and 
stealthily  stalked  until  its  dark  eyes  gazed  won- 
dering and  wistfully  into  those  of  its  hunter.  And 
again  the  whizzing  arrow  flew  from  its  bow  to  bite 
into  the  heart  of  the  white  victim.  But,  as  it 
struck  the  spotless  side,  it  broke  in  twain.  And, 
without  the  least  stain  of  wound,  the  spirit-deer 
bounded  silently  away. 

As  the  White  Doe  suddenly  vanished,  a  rum- 
bling roar,  as  of  heavy  thunder,  fell  from  a  lower- 
ing red  cloud  directly  overhead;  and,  with  rush- 
ing wings  swift  as  the  lightning's  bolt,  the  mighty 


320     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Red  Eagle  of  the  Attakapas  legends  swooped 
down  from  the  lurid  cloud.  The  great  bird 
grasped  the  impious  hunter's  painted  body  in  its 
talons  and  bore  it  high  up  in  the  sky  in  soaring 
circles.  Then  the  Red  Eagle  flew  straight  away 
to  the  Southwest  to  the  far  land  of  the  Attakapas 
forefathers,  carrying  Homa  of  the  Red  Warriors 
to  the  Father  of  its  mountains,  which  wears  a  red 
crest  of  flame-feathers  rising  high  over  a  mighty 
tribe  of  mountains. 

The  warm  season  passed  away  without  tidings 
of  Loosa  or  Homa.  Then  in  the  following  winter 
a  lone  Black  Wolf  and  a  Red  Coyote,  both  of  fabu- 
lous size,  began  howling  and  wailing  mournfully 
all  through  the  long  dark  nights  beyond  the  outer 
lodges  of  the  Attakapas  town.  The  ordinary 
people  wondered  why  these  nightly  disturbers  of 
their  peace  refused  to  be  driven  away.  But  wise 
old  Metumka,  listening  in  his  medicine-lodge,  was 
happy  to  hear  them  and  feel  that  his  magic  had 
worked  so  effectively.  For  well  he  knew  that  the 
(Black  Wolf  and  the  Red  Coyote  howling  and 
wailing  near  the  town  in  the  night  contained  the 


The  Lost  Hunters  of  the  White  Doe     321 

spirits  of  Loosa  and  Homa,  looking  vainly  for  the 
lost  homeward  trail  back  to  the  far  lands  of  the 
Tusca-Loosas  and  the  Tuscahomas. 

Other  old  men  of  the  Attakapas  had  declared 
that  Loosa  must  have  been  destroyed  in  a  twisting 
spring  tornado  and  Homa  been  killed  by  lightning 
in  a  fierce  Summer  thunderstorm;  and  they  main- 
tained that  the  spirits  of  the  lost  hunters  of  the 
White  Doe  had  reached  home  many  moons  since. 
But  Metumka  knew  better. 


XXII 


of 


AsFOTHER  HOT  ^  W^  Spring  came  to 
the  land  of ''Ji  /||the  Attakapas,  and 
with  it  ar-  w  Jj)]r  rived  another  suitor 

for  the  hand  of  the  unwon  Sartartia. 

This  was  Pasca,  a  young  chief  of  the  tribe  of 
Pascagoulas,  or  the  Eaters  of  Corn,  who  lived  a 

322 


The  Winning  of  Mist-in- the- Woods       323 

moon's  march  to  the  eastward,  by  the  shores  of 
"  the  Singing  Sea."  Pasca  was  taller  and  more 
finely  formed  than  the  two  warrior-hunters  of  the 
other  strange  tribes  who  had  preceded  him  in  the 
courtship  of  the  Pumpkin  Flower.  His  handsome 
face  was  free  of  paint,  as  were  his  hands  of  blood- 
stain. He  was  robed  in  a  richly  dyed  tunic  from 
neck  to  knee,  which  was  girdled  with  a  wide  belt 
shining  with  the  shells  of  his  native  shore.  His 
raiment  awakened  the  wonder  and  also  the  un- 
bounded admiration  of  the  Attakapas  women, 
from  the  novelty  of  its  fabric  and  fashion.  It  was 
woven  of  the  fine  fibres  of  a  plant  which  grew  in 
the  fields  of  the  Pascagoulas,  and  which  their  own 
tribe  had  long  forgotten  that  their  forefathers  had 
grown.  But  that  glittering  belt  of  wampum  most 
excited  the  cupidity  of  both  women  and  men. 

Pasca  entered  the  Attakapas  town  unheralded, 
holding  in  his  hand  an  unstrung  bow  as  a  symbol 
of  Peace;  and  in  a  pouch  slung  over  his  shoulder 
he  carried,  as  a  sign  of  his  tribal  plenty,  half  of  the 
corn  with  which  it  had  been  filled  when  he  started 
on  his  long  journey. 


324     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

The  men  of  the  Attakapas  received  this  last 
visitor  with  hospitality,  but  with  far  less  honor 
than  they  had  shown  their  two  warrior-guests  at- 
tired in  the  symbolic  black  of  Hate  and  red  of 
Cruelty.  At  first  the  Pumpkin  Flower  was  some- 
what impressed  by  his  fine  figure  and  handsome 
face.  But,  when  she  learned  he  was  one  who  pre- 
ferred peace  to  war,  this  first  impression  gave 
place  to  dislike  and  disdain;  and  when  she  bade 
him  bring  her  the  heart  of  the  White  Doe  as  the 
price  of  her  winning  she  added  scornfully  under 
her  breath  that  he  might  eat  its  heart  to  gain  in 
valor.  The  old  Medicine-Man  held  this  new  as- 
pirant for  the  Beauty  of  his  tribe  as  beneath  even 
his  contempt. 

Yet  the  young  grower  of  bread  was  greater, 
wiser  and  braver  than  them  all.  His  magic  was 
far  more  potent  then  Metumka's,  for  he  had 
learned  how  to  make  the  Earth,  the  Sun  and  the 
rain-clouds  feed  and  clothe  his  people.  He  knew 
every  plant,  vine  and  tree  of  the  fields  and  forests; 
and  he  had  discovered  a  bloom  borne  by  one  of 
the  rarest  trees  on  earth,  the  "  Tree  of  True- 


The  Winning  of  Mist-in-the- Woods      325 

Love,"  in  his  own  tribal  tongue,  which  flower  pos- 
sessed the  most  marvelous  powers  of  enchantment 
of  any  in  the  world.  That  wonderful  flower, 
which  was  held  to  be  emblematic  of  purity  and 
mercy  as  well  as  of  love  by  the  gentler  Pascagou- 
las,  bloomed  far  from  the  haunts  of  men  in  the 
forest  of  the  Attakapas.  The  fragrant  blossom 
was  borne  on  the  top  of  the  central  stem  of  a  tall 
plant,  whose  girdling  of  long  leaves,  as  sharp  as 
spears  and  keen  as  swords,  guarded  it  from  de- 
spoiling hands. 

Strange  to  say,  Pasca  displayed  but  faint  ardor 
in  the  wooing  of  Sartartia,  and  not  the  least  desire 
to  enter  the  mystic  lodge  of  the  contemptuous  Me- 
tumka.  At  the  midnight  hour  he  quietly  left  the 
sleeping  Attakapas  town  and  went  forth  into  the 
forest  to  seek  the  Love  Flower,  which  he  found  in 
the  first  light  of  the  dawn,  after  long  searching. 
When  his  wonderful  plant-lore  had  thus  been  re- 
warded with  success  he  strung  his  bow,  and,  draw- 
ing from  his  quiver  an  arrow  feathered  from  the 
wing  of  a  white  dove,  lightly  shot  the  shaft 
through  the  heart  of  the  single  immaculate  bios- 


326     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

som.  The  arrow  dropped  on  the  ground  a  short 
distance  away,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Love- 
Tree,  wet  with  the  magic  juice  of  the  pierced 
flower.  There  the  bowman  recovered  it  and  re- 
placed it  in  his  quiver. 

Then  Pasca  sought  and  soon  found  the  trail  of 
the  White  Doe.  Following  it  swiftly  he,  too,  soon 
found  the  snowy  deer  with  the  dark  wistful  eyes. 
Getting  within  bowshot  he  let  fly  his  unerring 
shaft.  The  magic  arrow  pierced  the  innocent  heart 
at  which  it  was  aimed  as  easily  as  it  had  penetrated 
the  flower  of  enchantment;  and  the  spotless  white 
form  fell  to  the  ground. 

The  successful  hunter  ran  up  to  the  dying  crea- 
ture and  stood  over  it  waiting  for  its  ebbing  life  to 
end.  It  was  strange  to  see  that  hope  was  brighten- 
ing his  face  despite  its  looks  of  pity.  Then  hope 
and  joy  conquered  in  his  countenance  and  van- 
quished pity  fled.  The  wide  dark  eyes  were  fast 
losing  the  pleading  look  of  the  fatally  wounded 
Doe,  and  were  lighting  with  renewed  life.  As  if 
seen  in  a  vision,  with  rapidly  changing  shape,  the 
prostrate  deer  vanished  from  view;  and,  from 


The  Winning  of  Mist-in-the- Woods      327 

where  it  had  lain,  the  loveliest  Maiden  ever  seen 
timidly  arose  and  stood  before  the  glad  archer  of 
the  magic  arrow.  She  was  arrayed  in  a  snowy 
robe  of  swansdown,  and  her  bended  head  was  cov- 
ered with  a  hood  of  the  dainty  nuptial  plumes  of 
white  herons ;  from  the  back  of  that  hood  her  dark 
tresses  rippled  in  a  soft  silken  cascade  over  her 
shoulders  and  far  below  her  waist. 

That  Maiden,  as  one  awakened  from  a  deep 
sleep,  at  last  appealingly  lifted  her  doe-like  eyes 
to  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  rescued  her  from 
the  power  of  evil  sorcery,  and  asked  him  his  name, 
and  that  of  the  land  of  her  recovery,  which  was  all 
new  and  strange  to  her.  When  these  questions 
had  been  but  briefly  answered,  for  the  while,  she 
told  her  rescuer  that  before  she  had  fallen  asleep, 
in  what  seemed  ages  since,  she  had  been  called 
Melnabena,  or  Mist-in-the-Woods,  and  had  dwelt 
in  a  land  of  mountains,  but  she  could  remember 
little  of  her  past  or  her  people,  that  all  of  her  mem- 
ory seemed  to  have  been  lost  in  a  long,  long  dream 
in  which  she  was  ever  a  wandering  or  hunted 
White  Doe. 


328     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

As  the  noon  sun  sent  its  leaf-filtered  beams  to 
the  ground  Pasca  picked  up  his  magic  arrow, 
which  lay  bloodless  where  the  Spirit-Deer  had 
fallen,  and,  with  the  woman  whose  life  and  love  he 
had  won,  started  on  the  way  to  leave  the  Forest  of 
the  Long  River. 

But  the  winning  of  Mist-in-the-Wood  was  not 
yet  completed.  As  Pasca  walked  by  her  side  he 
was  troubled  with  the  thought  that  he  might  soon 
sorely  need  more  of  his  plant-magic  to  save  his 
prize  for  himself,  and  perhaps  to  preserve  both  of 
their  lives  ere  they  could  leave  the  land  of  the  At- 
takapas. 

The  more  the  young  hunter  pondered  over  this 
question  the  more  dangerous  their  position  ap- 
peared. He  had  outdone  the  crafty  old  Medicine- 
Man  of  the  Attakapas  in  magic,  and  beaten  the 
best  hunters  of  the  tribe  in  woodcraft.  But,  most 
of  all,  he  dreaded  being  held  to  the  pledge  of  be- 
trothal by  Sartartia  because  he  had  slain  the 
White  Doe. 

That  final  reckoning  with  the  Pumpkin  Flower, 
he  felt,  might  be  the  cause  of  mortal  offense  to  all 


The  Winning  of  Mist-in-the- Woods      329 

her  tribe.  He  had  not  really  come  to  the  Attakapas 
country  to  seek  her,  but  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the 
White  Doe,  its  long  and  fruitless  chase,  and  the 
strange  loss  of  its  two  most  noted  hunters,  the  tale 
of  such  happenings  having  reached  him  and  keenly 
aroused  his  interest.  But,  as  he  had  ostensibly 
visited  the  Attakapas  as  a  suitor  for  their  chief's 
daughter,  and  he  had  fulfilled  the  conditions  de- 
manded for  her  formal  winning,  if  she  now  chose 
to  lay  claim  to  him  as  her  lawful  lord  the  conse- 
quences of  his  refusal  to  wed  her  might  be  tragic 
indeed. 

The  young  magician  of  the  plants  had  to  think 
of  some  defense  against  the  dangers  confronting 
him  and  Melnabena.  As  he  walked  he  searched 
the  surrounding  woods  with  eyes  which  possessed 
the  Eagle  sight  by  day  and  the  Owl  vision  by 
night.  After  much  seeking  he  found  a  poisonous 
vine,  the  magic  of  whose  venomous  juice  was  just 
as  harmful  as  that  of  the  Love-Flower  was  good. 
This  was  the  vine  of  the  Yellow  Death.  Like  an 
hundred  inter-twining  serpents  starting  from  one 
den  in  the  ground  its  twisting  black  stems  assailed 


330     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

all  other  forms  of  plant  life.  They  would  crawl 
and  wind  about  the  trunk  of  any  tree,  grinding 
through  its  bark  and  crushing  deep  beneath  to  suck 
its  life-sap.  At  last  its  tawny  yellow  flowers  would 
breathe  and  drip  poison  from  their  petals  over  its 
every  limb  and  leaf,  until  the  doomed  tree  was 
killed.  Then  the  clinging  Yellow  Death  vine  de- 
voured it  in  decay  until  not  even  its  rottenness  re- 
mained. 

Pasca  plucked  another  arrow  from  the  sheaf  in 
his  quiver,  and,  kneeling  where  the  tap-root  of  the 
death-vine  entered  the  ground,  forced  the  barbed 
shaft  far  down  into  that  noxious  root.  When  he 
withdrew  the  arrow  its  head  was  yellow  and  sticky 
with  a  poison  passing  that  of  a  serpent's  tooth. 
With  great  care  he  wrapped  the  missile  closely  in 
large  pliant  leaves  and  replaced  it  in  a  single 
socket  of  his  quiver.  Then  he  resumed  his  way, 
with  Mist-in-the-Woods  walking  beside  him  as 
lightly  and  silently  as  the  White  Doe  had  formerly 
wandered  over  the  fallen  forest  leaves. 

The  pair  reached  the  Attakapas  town  as  the 
sun  was  red  near  its  setting.  On  their  arrival  the 


The  Winning  of  Mist-in- the- Woods      331 

people  gathered  around  them  in  great  wonder. 
The  amazing  tidings  of  their  coming  flew  from 
tepee  to  tepee,  and  very  soon  all  of  the  warriors, 
hunters,  squaws  with  papooses  peering  from  their 
panniers,  and  wide-eyed  boys  and  girls  crowded 
about  Pasca  and  Melnabena  with  noisy  excite- 
ment, and  different  degrees  of  envy  or  awe  as  they 
heard  the  tale  of  the  rescue  of  that  maiden  from  the 
body  of  the  White  Doe. 

Howsoever  the  men  of  the  tribe  regarded 
Pasca's  triumph,  they  were  bound  by  tribal  law  to 
openly  treat  the  lucky  hunter  as  a  friendly  guest. 
What  any  of  them  might  do  later  in  secret  was  a 
different  question.  But  all  of  such  possible  evil 
inclinations  among  the  men  were  promptly  sup- 
pressed by  Metumka,  who  was  most  hearty  in  his 
praise  of  Pasca.  He  harangued  the  assembled 
multitude  on  the  fame  that  the  visitor  had  won  so 
quickly  and  well  by  his  magic,  which  had  shown 
him  to  be  the  next  to  the  greatest  Medicine-Man 
ever  seen  in  their  country. 

Then  this  supreme  priest  of  the  tribe  withdrew 
the  young  couple  to  his  lodge  for  a  short  private 


332     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

conference,  after  which  he  brought  them  forth  to 
hold  a  further  pow-wow  with  the  waiting  gather- 
ing, when  the  old  man,  placing  Pasca  and  Melna- 
bena  before  him,  pronounced  them  duly  mated  by 
the  tribal  law.  Then  he  declared  in  the  manner 
of  a  marriage  benediction  that,  as  the  Great  Spirit 
had  given  the  stranger  his  squaw  in  their  forest,  all 
the  tribe  would  please  the  Great  Spirit  very  much 
by  being  good  to  the  wedded  couple,  and  with  gifts 
of  food  and  raiment  speeding  them  as  parting 
guests  when  they  chose  the  time  to  leave  for  the 
land  of  the  Pascagoulas. 

Metumka's  avowed  friendship,  and  his  haste  in 
performing  this  marriage  ceremony,  were  founded 
on  a  fear  like  that  felt  by  Pasca.  The  madly 
enamored  old  man  dreaded  that  a  fickle  change  of 
fancy  might  cause  Sartartia  to  hold  the  successful 
hunter  to  the  pledge  she  had  once  scornfully  de- 
manded and  compel  him  to  wed  her;  and,  having 
hurried  up  the  wedding  to  forestall  any  such 
change  of  heart  in  the  object  of  his  own  infatua- 
tion, he  was  mightily  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  the 
early  departure  of  the  mated  pair. 


The  Winning  of  Mist-in-the- Woods       333 

Sartartia  seemed  to  accept  the  situation  with 
perfect  indifference,  which  was  falsely  assumed; 
for  Pasca,  the  disdained  wooer  of  the  day  before, 
was  not  then  the  proud  winner  of  a  trophy  for 
which  many  had  vainly  striven.  She  saw  that  the 
man  she  had  scorned  yesterday  as  a  spiritless  fool 
was  brave  and  mighty  in  magic.  Then  she  had  not 
particularly  noted  that  he  was  so  tall  and  hand- 
some, with  the  stature  and  the  step  of  a  young 
chief.  And,  worst  of  all,  a  more  beautiful  woman 
had  taken  what  she  had  rejected. 

In  that  sunset  hour  of  Pasca's  return  the  flame 
of  love  was  first  kindled  in  her  heart,  and,  blazing 
with  the  passion  of  her  full  womanhood,  it  burned 
all  the  more  fiercely  for  her  jealousy  of  the 
woman  he  had  won  in  doing  her  own  foolish  bid- 
ding. Metumka  had  betrayed  her  in  giving  her  no 
time  to  prevent  the  marriage  and  demand  the  en- 
forcement of  that  compact  of  honor  between  her,  a 
chief's  daughter,  and  a  visiting  chief.  And,  now 
that  it  was  done,  her  own  father  could  not  revoke 
a  marriage  performed  by  the  prophet  of  his 
tribe. 


334     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

Thus,  enraged  by  her  fancied  or  real  wrongs, 
and  rendered  desperate  by  the  first  irresistible  love 
of  her  savage  life,  Sartartia  determined  to  take 
matters  in  her  own  hands  and  try  to  regain  the 
lover  she  had  held  too  lightly  and  lost.  Counting 
the  crime  it  involved  as  nothing  compared  with  the 
satisfaction  of  her  intense  longing,  she  decided  that 
the  first  step  toward  reaching  her  end  should  be 
the  sacrifice  of  the  innocent  human  life  which  had 
been  released  but  a  few  hours  from  the  body  of  the 
slain  White  Doe. 

As  the  deep  darkness  of  the  moonless  night  cov- 
ered the  town,  Sartartia  sought  in  her  father's 
lodge,  during  his  absence  at  the  council-fire  dis- 
cussing the  wonders  of  that  day's  principal  event,  a 
suitable  weapon  for  the  foul  deed  she  had  in  mind. 
From  the  Chief's  war  accoutrements  she  selected 
a  long  and  keenly  sharp  knife  with  a  shining  blade 
of  tempered  copper  and  a  haft  of  dull  grey  metal. 
Both  blade  and  handle  were  graven  with  mystic 
symbols  and  figures  of  long-robed  men  moving 
toward  a  smoking  mountain.  That  knife,  accord- 
ing to  tribal  traditions,  had  belonged  to  uncount- 


The  Winning  of  Mist-in-the- Woods      335 

able  generations  of  chiefs ;  and  it  bore  the  repute  of 
having  been  made  by  the  most  potent  and  sacred 
magic  the  medium  of  certain  death  in  the  hands  of 
its  rightful  owner. 

Taking  that  infallible  weapon  into  her  adjoin- 
ing lodge,  Sartartia  gloated  over  it  with  fiendish 
cruelty  as  the  flames  without  flickered  over  its  pol- 
ished blade.  When  the  last  red  embers  before  her 
lodge  died  in  the  grey  ashes  she  lay  on  her  couch 
still  fingering  the  edge  of  that  sacred  implement  of 
human  sacrifice  until  the  passing  of  the  midnight 
hour. 

When  the  town  was  in  its  heaviest  sleep  she 
arose,  tightened  her  grasp  on  her  weapon's  rough 
graven  hilt,  and  stole  noiselessly  out  into  the  night 
on  her  murderous  mission.  To  avoid  the  least 
chance  of  being  seen  by  any  possibly  wakeful  eye 
she  crouched  like  an  animal  with  her  body  low  to 
the  ground,  and  crawled  on  hands  and  knees 
toward  the  dark  and  silent  lodge  of  the  mated 
lovers.  Moving  her  limbs  with  cautious  feline 
stealth,  pausing  every  few  paces  to  look  around 
and  listen  for  danger  to  herself,  she  crawled  slowly 


336     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

on  until  the  skin-covered  lodge  was  near  enough 
for  her  final  fatal  rush. 

But,  fearing  treachery  from  their  very  savage 
hosts,  both  the  young  visitors,  having  just  finished 
their  preparations  for  a  midnight  flight,  were 
about  to  leave  the  lodge,  when  Pasca,  slightly  part- 
ing its  deerskin  curtains  to  see  if  their  way  was 
clear  of  danger,  beheld  the  crouching  figure  on  the 
ground  before  its  entrance.  In  the  blackness  of 
that  dense  darkness  he  could  but  dimly  discern, 
even  with  his  wonderful  eyesight,  the  human  out- 
lines of  its  body.  Convinced  that  it  was  an  Attaka- 
pas  brave,  on  murder  bent,  he  sent  forth  his  second 
magic  arrow,  envenomed  from  the  death-vine,  into 
the  breast  of  the  midnight  assassin. 

A  fierce  scream,  like  the  enraged  cry  of  some 
cruel  beast  balked  of  its  prey,  shrilled  through  the 
startled  town;  and  where  Sartartia  had  last 
crouched,  a  long  tawny  beast  sprang  up,  bared  its 
wicked  fangs,  tore'  the  stinging  arrow  from  its 
breast,  screamed  again  and  bounded  away  toward 
the  forest. 

Ere  the  startled  town  could  stir  out  of  its  lodges 


TORE   THE    STINGING    ARROW    FROM    ITS    BREAST. 


The  Winning  of  Mist-in-the- Woods      337 

to  learn  the  source  of  those  terrible  night-cries, 
Pasca  and  Mist-in-the- Wood,  as  fleet-footed  as  the 
White  Doe,  whence  she  came,  were  far  on  their 
way  to  the  land  of  the  Pascagoulas,  which  they 
reached  in  safety. 

The  next  morning  Sartartia  was  missing;  and 
for  many  moons  the  Attakapas  warriors  and 
braves  sought  over  prairie  and  forest  for  their  un- 
returning  tribeswoman.  But  she  was  never  again 
beheld  by  human  eyes.  Timed  exactly  with  the 
date  of  her  disappearance  a  new  night-cry  of  a 
ferocious  beast  hitherto  unknown  to  the  Attakapas 
hunters  came  from  the  great  forest  of  the  Long 
River.  The  lamenting  old  Metumka  told  the  tribe 
with  solemn  assurance  that  the  same  great  un- 
known sorcerer  who  had  imprisoned  Melnabena  so 
long  in  the  White  Doe's  shape  had  been  angered 
by  her  deliverance  in  the  land  of  the  Attakapas, 
and  had  in  punishment  for  such  defiance  put  the 
spirit  of  their  Chief's  daughter  into  this  new  and 
dangerous  night-prowling  animal.  A  little  later 
an  adventurous  Attakapas  hunter,  who  chanced  to 
see  enough  of  this  new  bloodthirsty  creature  to 


338     Plantation  Stories  of  Old  Louisiana 

learn  its  ways,  foolishly  hinted,  out  of  Metumka's 
hearing,  that  the  strange  beast,  itself,  must  have 
stolen  Sartartia  in  one  of  her  night-strolls,  and 
carried  her  off  into  the  forest. 

However  it  might  have  been,  it  was  just  then 
that  the  first  Cougar  came  to  the  greatest  forest  of 
Louisiana.  And  as  long  afterward  as  the  Attaka- 
pas  remained  in  the  land  of  their  fathers  they 
heard  its  scream  in  their  great  forest  at  night. 
They  shuddered  at  its  loudest  and  most  wrathful 
cry,  which  came  when  the  wild-doe  had  escaped  its 
death-spring  and  its  murderous  fangs,  as  Melna- 
bena  had  escaped  the  cruel  knife  of  Sartartia. 


THE   END. 


>   BILLY-MARRIED8 

A  Sequel  to  " Miss  Billy"  and  " Miss  §? 
Billys  Decision" 


&y  Eleanor  H. 

Author  of  "  Pollyanna  :  "  The  GLAD  Book  (  Trade  Mark), 
CurrenU,"  "The  Turn  of  UM  Tide."  etc. 


Crow 


I2mo,  cloth  decorative,  with  frontispiece  tn  full  color,  decorative 
jacket.     3\£et  $  1 .25 ;  carriage  paid  $1 .40 

9 

In  which  the  gifted  author  of  "Pollyanna,"  the  most  popular 
book  for  the  year  1913,  scores  another  success  and  makes  of 
the  married  life  of  adorable  Billy  Neilson  —  the  heroine  of  the 
MISS  BILLY  books  — and  Bertram  Henshaw  a  story  of  un- 
usual tenderness  and  sweetness.  There  is  a  deal  of  delicious 
humor  and  common  sense,  too,  in  the  story,  and  happiness  in 
abundance,  even  in  the  trying  days  when  the  young  bride  finds 
herself  bereft  of  a  cook  and  burdened  with  the  care  of  a  Bea- 
con Street  household.  But  whether  the  weather  be  fair  or 
threatening,  she  is  "just  Billy,"  happy  when  making  someone's 
burden  lighter,  happier  still  with  the  advent  of  Bertram,  Jr., 
and  happiest  of  all  when  her  husband  is  able  to  use  his  strong 
right  arm  again,  even  to  paint  the  dreaded  "  face  of  a  girl." 

As  is  the  case  with  all  of  Mrs.  Porter's  books,  the  story  is 
"  always  life,"  gracefully  and  sympathetically  presented,  carry- 
ing with  it  a  message  of  happiness. 


ITHE  ROSE  OF  ROSES 


$y  JXCn.  Henry  Backus 

Author  of  "The  Career  of  Dr.  Wearer' 


I2mo,  cloth  decorative,  with  frontispiece  in  full  color 
.25  ;  carriage  paid  $1.40 


A  girl  of  unusual  beauty,  endowed  with  a  singing  voice  of  rare 
quality,  and  possessor  of  that  charm  of  person  which  men  some- 
times describe  as  magnetic,  —  this  is  Fraulein  Antoinette 
Kroger,  whom  Conrad  Questenberg,  a  young  American  archi- 
tect, visiting  abroad,  first  meets  in  a  Kaffee-haus  in  Bremen, 
Germany,  where  the  fair  "  Toni  "  entertains  every  evening. 

Toni  has  ambitions  which  lean  towards  a  career  in  Amerika, 
as  Questenberg  learns  at  what  he  had  intended  to  be  his  fare- 
well meeting  with  the  girl.  Very  generously  he  offers  a  chance 
of  a  voyage  to  the  land  of  the  free  if  Toni  will  agree  to  "  a 
trial  engagement."  Impulsively,  she  accepts,  and  then  —  the 
love  game  is  on. 

The  author  has  achieved  a  thing  unusual  in  developing  a 
love  story  which  adheres  to  conventions  under  unconventional 
circumstances.  She  has  written  a  novel  out  of  the  ordinary 
in  every  way  and  one  of  striking  brilliance, —  remarkable  for 
its  unaffectedness  and  human  interest  appeal. 


I  MISS   MADELYN    MACK, 
DETECTIVE 


In  which  are  solved  the  mysteries     gfv 
of  "The  Purple  Thumb,"  or  "The  White 
Orchids,"  "The  Man  with  Nine  Lives,"  "The 
Missing  Bridegroom,"  "  Cinderella's  Slipper,"  etc. 

(By  Hugh  C  Weir 


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painting  by  Wm.  Van  Dresser.     Net$l.  25;  carriage  paid  $1.40 


No  field  of  fiction  is  more  interesting  than  that  of  a  detect- 
ive, or  professional  investigator  of  mysteries,  and  it  is  easy  to 
predict  a  popular  welcome  for  this  clever  story  of  Mr.  Weir's. 
The  reader  will  be  absorbed  in  following  the  clues  which  guided 
Madelyn  Mack,  the  unique  woman  detective,  in  the  solution  of 
the  strange  mystery  of  "  The  Purple  Thumb."  And  this  is 
only  one  of  her  remarkable  cases  in  a  continuous  series  of 
adventures  which  constitute  a  tale  of  swift  and  dramatic  action. 
Clever  in  plot  and  effective  in  style,  the  author  has  seized  on 
some  of  the  most  sensational  features  of  modern  life,  and  the 
result  is  a  detective  novel  that  gets  away  from  the  beaten  track 
of  mystery  stories  in  the  first  page  and  never  returns  to  it. 


PLANTATION   STORIES  OF 
OLD  LOUISIANA 

^?  £y  Andrews  Wilkinson  §S 


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9 

Primarily,  these  nature  and  animal  stories  are  for  the  chil-  [ 
dren's  hour,  but  their  underlying  philosophy  and  humor  will  jj 
charm  every  member  of  the  household  from  the  smallest  toddler 
to  the  old  folks.  In  Old  Jason,  the  author  has  created  a 
character  who  will  rival  the  justly  famed  Uncle  Remus.  The 
old  fellow's  legends,  related  in  the  quaint  negro  dialect  of  the 
South  of  years  ago,  are  remarkable  examples  of  a  vanishing 
folk  lore  and  are  certain  to  entertain  even  the  most  blase 
reader.  Nor  has  the  author  been  satisfied  with  having  created 
only  that  delightful  character.  He  has  included  in  his  volume 
stories  of  birds  and  animals  which  will  take  rank  with  Kipling's 
Jungle  Books ;  he  has  given  us  stories  in  the  hitherto  little 
known  Creole  dialect,  and  through  them  all  he  has  maintained 
an  attractive  interest  which  grasps  the  reader  at  the  very 
outset  and  holds  him  until  the  last  page  has  been  read. 


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